The Days of Our Years
by aragonite
Summary: Historic POV of WWI in the world of Sherlock Holmes. Each chapter stands alone, but can connect to the others. Everyone in the Main Canon will be here. Each successive chapter ought to be a little more tense!
1. Chapter 1

**World War I in London. This is more suited to the murky moods of DEVILRY, and like Devilry, each chapter should stand alone on its own merit. Going to War is no unfamiliar theme in our history, but it seems as though we re-learn certain lessons every generation.**

-

_The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away. Psalm 90:10_

**August 8, 1914: The Defence of the Realm Act is passed.**

The police knew it might happen; rumors and gossip had flown like leaves in the months, weeks, and finally days before **the one day** in Parliament. Only so much gossip can be dismissed as rot after all. But they have all they can do to handle the flurry. Last year Sir Edward1 pressed to have the sales of pistols regulated. Pistols and handguns are now out of favour in a country that has sworn in 24,000 Special Constables to offset the strain of what will be known as the First World War. War is on their very door-mat, and anyone with a gun is now eyed with suspicion.

"He did it because of that crackpot what tried to kill him two years ago." Bradstreet says the obvious without fear. He's so close to retirement it's ridiculous. "One little assassination attempt and he just tries to outlaw badness."

"Huh." Jones moves his shoulder awkwardly as he aims the darts. "Wouldn't've survived as a Bobby on the Beat, that's for certain."

"How's the bursitis?"

"Lovely. Just lovely. Coming right along. Positively tops." Jones throws again; he's off.

Gregson mutters to himself as he turns a page in the paper. Behind him the _plink_-_plink_ of a roaring coal stove adds acrid climate to the back room of the _Malmsey Keg._ It's cozy, self-contained. They've earned the unspoken right to this little room and their own drinks-bearer. The only rule (if it can be called such) is that one _must_ have served for the Badge at least twenty years.

"Hold on there, Jones." Lestrade winced at the next round. "The darts are supposed to get to that large round thing on the wall…not the wall itself."

Jones gave his opinion with three pointed words and kept trying, left-handed. When Mr. Holmes called him 'tenacious as a lobster' he was only speaking the obvious.

Gregson looked over his newspaper. "Speaking as the expert on insulting Ratty here, I must say there, Jones, your insults have lost their old artistic touch."

Jones sighed like a slow-leaking tyre and leaned on the wall with one hand for a moment, his head hanging down. "I'm fagged out." He said at last. "You'd think, 24,000 new police on the streets there'd be _something_ good in 'em."

"They're 'Special Constables' and don't you _dare_ lump them with the likes of us!" Youghal had just arrived, wet as a trout and still struggling with his heavy cape. He finally dropped it onto the hand-made coat-rack by the stove where tiny drops of dirty water soon hissed on the hot metal. A fume not unlike a burning gutter soon arose.

"Ahh, the South End!" Bradstreet sniffed nostalgically. "Any luck with the Fagin2 over there?"

"Pinched like a crab." Youghal sighed. "S'why I'm here. I need to celebrate _something_, and that something happens to be apprehending that lout _despite_ the aid of those Special Constables."

"Oh, dear." Lestrade was merciful enough to leave it at that.

Youghal was not yet ready to let it go. He kept his hands over the heat for a moment, building momentum in his brain. Outside their room the usual good cheer was going on among the younger Constables, Chief Constables, sergeantsandwhatnots as they settled down after a long day.

"You'll note," He added glumly, "that despite the addition of these extras in the city, there are precious few of them actually here in the '_Keg_. Most of 'em are out trampling about in their own gin-mills."

Lestrade was tired of his chair. He rose to his feet and ignored how all eyes slid to him or Gregson now. The new Uniform still didn't fit like the promised glove and the largeness of the sleeves took the most adjustment. Gregson's eyes were knowing and amused; had been since their promotions.

_You can be smug_, Lestrade thought back at him, knowing the prig knew what he was thinking. _**You**__ got promoted in the Met. _CID Superintendent still felt strange to him, and he didn't like the fact that he was in the office more and the streets less.

"I knew something like this would happen," he said finally. "We needed to fill the ranks for those who are in the War, but…too many of these Johnny-on-the-Spots know precious little about what they're doing…or what they're even here for!" He joined the other man by the stove, thinking that Youghal had either shrunk a bit in age, or was wearing low soles. Lestrade doubted he'd found the time to grow a bit in his last twenty years.

"If that was one of us back then," Jones mused over a handful of pilfered darts, "If that was one of us…"

"It almost was!" Lestrade reminded him. "Remember the Franco-Prussian War? England _almost_ volunteered into that mess!" They shared a collective shudder. "We've always had our men joining the military, just as we've always had military men joining our ranks. But every time there's a war…you have a large number of men that have to be shuffled back and forth like a game of billiards."

"I'd think of it as a game of chess myself." Gregson opted. "No, wait, you're right. Billiards. Knock you flying from one department to another, and if you lose, you go off sunk."

"Vivid." Morton muttered. "In the meantime, we're outnumbered, gents. Raw, rough, young, cocky young stripes are gadding about London, drunk with the power and little more than uniformed bullies. Just when I thought we'd survived long enough to see better days!" In a dour mood he picked up one of the periodicals from the lamp-table and made a pretense of thumbing through it. "We've unwound the clock back to a poorer era, mark my words. I don't dare retire now! Not when I've got to keep my eyes on my own men as much as the elements I'm arresting!"

"Pass on the names." Lestrade sighed. "We might as well chart our own hoodlums."

"Amen." Youghal's usual energy was diminished at the solemnity of the conversation. Of late, the Old Guard had come to the _'Keg_ not to relax, but to seek a temporary refuge.

-

With the Act, pubs had to close at 9:30. Lestrade didn't want to stay the whole time anyway; another joy of the Act was that all the beverages were now watered down to prevent alcohol indulgence. He bade them all a good-night and walked home instead of hailing his usual cab. The entire day had been wasted within his office. The world was changing, but promoting him to be a part of the changes felt wrong. He'd been good enough at what he did as a Chief Inspector.

He turned up his collar against the rain and tucked the rim of his hat down like a bottle-cap as people about him complained of London. He felt like a perfectly working watch-part taken out of an old watch and put into a new one: a cannibalised piece of machinery.

A Bobby was at the intersection, directing the traffic through to promote a steady flow. Lestrade couldn't tell who it was; sometimes he still thought he saw the PCs of his past walking through London…the dead ones or those invalided out. PC Cooper was now a Sergeant. Murcher had been a sergeant for years and had no intention of rising higher. He liked his little corner of the world and it went without saying, his little corner operated smoothly with little crime.

Twelve men were testing next week. A 10/s bonus prize was for those who could successfully test in Yiddish. Lestrade wondered what the late Mr. Root would think if told this new generation would be rewarded for knowing his wife's language.

The new Constables were _nothing_ like his generation. These lads were given better pay; enough that they could actually _afford_ to live in the very city they served. They had a bit of a coal allowance; a clothing allowance if they worked out of twig, _and medical care_. Anyone below rank of station-sergeant had a weekly 1/6 rent stipend—what he wouldn't have given for that luxury in his day! He'd taken his rooms with Mrs. Collins on a work-agreement, paying the balance of his time in paint and small repair work. Long were those evenings when he'd be staggered from lack of sleep and still be up, paying for his right to live by more work.

That reminded him; they needed to go check on her grave on the coming Sunday…

…a Woman Police Officer scurried by and Lestrade fell back warily to avoid being seen. He frankly doubted she was up to something he'd approve of. Harassing other women seemed to be the lot of this new face of London Law…it resembled a bad joke but it would be amusing if it weren't so true. The wives of the Old Guard were rarely complimentary about them.

Women in the uniform. What an opportunity that hadn't existed before. And speaking of opportunity all around…just the chances for promotion had risen to an astonishing level.

Fifteen out of a hundred men now had decent odds for promotion within the ranks.

_But some things never change._ He reminded himself. The Bobby's shouts blended with that of the traffic—more automobiles than horses now—and the patter of rain. _The last time I saw Mr. Holmes, each policeman was responsible for 726 citizens. Now it's down to a staggering 724. Barking, that. Barking._

The rain faltered after a few streets; one thing about London. Snow on one side could be ice on the other…or even a warmish rain. In his case it began to dry with a freakish wind that smelled just a bit of the Surrey tanneries. He re-tightened his hat, wishing for his bowler one more time. Dratted assemblies…one _had_ to wear the blue—not that he wasn't proud of the badge, but it symbolised a promotion he was not certain he wanted. _I feel like the organ-grinder's monkey. Someone else put this on me._

It was his habit to keep these thoughts to himself in the long minutes between work and home. Best air out the laundry before he needed to think about either…at least that was his thinking to himself when he rounded the corner past the zoo and discovered his youngest son at odds with a fresh-faced Special Constable.

Even over the rising wet wind, Lestrade could suss the situation at a glance. Nick had a half-broken loaf of stale bread in his hand and he was near the gates of the zoological gardens. The S.C. was haranguing him and waving the cuffs, regardless of the fact that his victim was twice his size in both directions and calmly refusing to see what the fuss was all about.

_Third time this month…_

"What's all this, then?" Lestrade used his sharpest voice, and both men started a bit as they turned. Both flinched a bit. As well as Nick should; if his tender heart got in the way of the law with the animals…

"Sir." The Constable paused with a clumsy salute of respect as he took in the DSI's ranking. Lestrade could see him churn it through the rusty waters of his brain: 'Dee-tect-ive suuuperinnntennndent innspectorrrr.' "This fellow here was feeding the pigeons."

A blatant breach of the Defence of the Realm Act. Lestrade felt himself tighten up.

"I beg your pardon, sir." Nicholas spoke respectfully—as well as he should to his own father as well as a policeman. "But as a trusted employee of the British Zoological Gardens, I know it is against the law to feed strays, wild animals or birds now that we are at war."

"Then perhaps you could explain the loaf of bread in your hand, sir." Lestrade offered dryly.

Nicholas wordlessly held out the loaf of bread in question. "I had it to eat, and then I realised it was barely fit. I was just plucking off the mouldy parts."

The Special Constable grimaced. "Which leads to littering." He pointed out.

Lestrade looked from side to side, but of course the wildlife that had been following Nicholas around since birth had taken care of the breadcrumbs. "The litter seems to have gone the way of nature, Constable." He said in the same tone of voice. "Tell me. If you were to advise this gentleman to do better in the future, what would you have him do?"

_Nicholas Bartram Lestrade, you owe me_. The father communicated with that special silent language only fathers possess upon sons, from the other side of the back of the Constable's head as it was explained thoroughly and at great length, the existence of rubbish bins, their purpose of being, and the nearest locations. At the end of it Nicholas was properly respectful indeed and the Constable was swaggering off with the satisfaction of a job well done in the eyes of a CID Superintendent.

Lestrade and Lestrade regarded each other with far too much composure to smile. Not yet. They could both hold it in until they were all at the supper table.

"He'll be halfway to the station before he thinks of how he could have arrested you."

"Oh, he'll be back tomorrow." Nicholas answered. Favouring his mother's large-scale relations, he was a living mountain next to his father. "It seems he's a relative somewhere of Miss Downey."

They fell into step together and turned to Paddington Street with a will. "Miss Downey? Whatever happened to the Charming Ivy? You're not turning old-fashioned on us, are you Nick?"

Nick stammered a moment but managed not to blush. "I don't know…it seems safer somehow…I mean…there's more than one Ivy and people might get confused."

"To hear you talk, there's only one Ivy Downey in London." Lestrade paused and pretended to look both ways against traffic before they crossed. "Good job you never joined the Force, lad. If I'd to go by your raptures about the young lady, I would've thought she was eight feet tall and glowed."

Nicholas made a growling sound in his chest. "Can't hear you," he shot back, miming an ear-horn at his ear.

"Nice try, Nick, but it's your _other_ ear what burst. Get into the habit of walking on my other side if you want to use that."

Nicholas gave up and started laughing. "Very well. Might I invite her over with her Mum soon?"

"You may, but best ask her for the convenient date and stick to it." Lestrade fondly clapped his son on the back, though he had to reach up to do so. "Don't plague yourself over this, lad. Times are hard for everyone. The Act is making us all buckle down and tighten up. They say we'll have to start rationing food if this keeps up much longer."

Nicholas mumbled sadly. "It's hard to work at the Gardens, Tad. I can feed animals, but as soon as I'm outside the brick walls…it's a different story. The ASPCA is doing all it can to stay open, and who wants to adopt strays when things are so tight?"

"The police can only obey the _letter_ of the law, Nick. Not its _spirit_. Sit you down and think about it tonight. I'm sure you'll find a way around it." It wasn't the greatest of inconveniences. Right now there were plenty of grieving youngsters forbidden to fly kites or light bonfires that were quite angry at the Act just now. Their fathers were just as angry because it was now illegal to purchase binoculars. Lestrade had wisened up to the whispers leaking out of Parliament and stocked up on several spyglasses and two binoculars. It worried him that defiance of the Act could conceivably mean the Death Penalty, and he was glad that _possession_ of said objects weren't illegal…yet.

"Martin coming in tonight?"

"Supposed to…Depends on if his boys are still coughing."

"Poor fellow. Well, let's see to your Mamm, shall we? It's a gloomy enough night and her cooking ought to make the day right."

"You won't tell her about just now, will you?"

"Tell her about what?" Lestrade chuckled. Forget the fact that Nick had become an adult over eighteen years ago. Clea Lestrade was still a formidable power.

"Thanks, Tad."

"Thanks, nothing. I might need your help getting those War curtains up tomorrow."

"You just need someone tall."

"Well, that's you, m'lad."

Nicholas' laugh died out by inches. They walked another street-length before his father asked him what was the matter.

"Mr. Lewis says the airships are going to attack."

Lestrade toed a broken cup out of his way. "He's probably right."

"What can we do, Tad? They're so…" Nick's voice caught. "They're so big."

"Size isn't everything, Nick. You ought to know. You were small once."

Nick was very quiet for the rest of the walk. They passed the Station and its ruckus, stepped across the old tracklines, and set their gaze down the abandoned line that was now their street. Home was at the end, and with it, warm pools of light and sanity.

"Yes, sir." He said at last. "You're right about that. It's just that we're so _small_ next to Germany."

His father poked him in the side. Greying and bronzed with age, his father's eyes had never greyed with the rest of him, making his gaze even sharper and stronger.

"Small things have a way of getting big, Nick."

1 Sir Edward Henry

2 Someone illegally employing children


	2. An Exile for Salt

That August had been deceptively mild for weather.

August was an eternity from tonight.

Eternity was also perched upon the edge of the land and sea, the world according to the eyes of the Sussex Downs.

"You are quiet, Holmes."

Sherlock Holmes did not respond at first. He continued to regard the inky world on the other side of his window, seeing things with his sharp eyes that his companion's desert-scalded vision could not.

Being Watson, he did not dwell on his losses so much as he did his gifts. They were as real to him as the wedding ring upon his finger, or the tiny images clipped neatly inside the back of his watch.

Some little time passed in the quiet of the night. About the two men (one seated and smoking, the other standing and watching) in the quiet of the little cottage a clock was marking the passage of life. In a soft glow of yellow lamp-light (heavily shielded by beige curtains and the extra protection of wooden blinds), the rest of the world was continuing…from the other side of the Channel.

Watson watched him from his usual comforting guest-chair. While hardly the sitting-room, it was the favourite of the two in the reminisce of their old bachelor days. Without the restraint of Landlandy or friend, books lined the four walls even _above_ the doorways, to the extent that the pattern of the wallpaper was invisible.

"And here, is the added genius of the design," Holmes had said with delight. "With winters upon the Downs being enough to chill these thin bones," he pulled out a brown book and held it up to show its width, "I am decorating and _insulating_ my rooms with my reading materials!"

Here and there, interrupting the flow of leather spines and gilt rested a curio that said "Holmes" more than anything in the world. Watson allowed his gaze to flit over a few of them: a bleached ape's skull placed rather appropriately in the centre of the Philosophy section; a Chinese soapstone ink-set carved with some animal off the Eastern Zodiac propped up flimsy and insubstantial musings about the art of writing. A brass-clad compass hung off a nail skewered into the polished wood just above a collection of writings from a once-famed traveler named Sigerson.

Through it all its owner stood as transfixed as a butterfly within the power of a certain (thankfully dead) collector of over twenty years' past. It was a too-apt analogy; butterflies were frozen in time, within the temporal seal of glass. Holmes was just as frozen on the other side of his viewing-glaze.

He looked a statue, the way a bronze statue collects the rime of frost upon its cheeks and brow. Indeed, Holmes was frosting in those very places, being long overdue for his daily shave. But war was upon the world, and the razor was but one of the small things easily forgotten.

"The Eastern wind grows foul, Watson."1

"That it may, but you ought to shutter your windows all the same." Watson permitted himself to lower the thin cigarillo between his fingers. "Especially those facing France."

It took a moment, but his host smiled, slowly, as if re-acquainting himself to the world outside his thoughts.

"Good old Watson. I must avail myself of your well-meaning advice before we part again." With a sudden flourish the shutters were clipped shut inside their tiny locks; the wood blinds were drawn after and at last, heavy beige2 drapes flowed over all. "It will keep the lights of our conference from the eyes of any airships, but I'll allow it does little more than that."

"I would think," Watson mused, "that a little still accounts for _something_."

"A little," Holmes repeated with a voice thin as a firefly's track across the night. "My thoughts are on the minutiae of late, Watson. There were so many minutiae within the Court of St. James. Did you know?"

"Tell me if it eases your conscience, Holmes."

"And how would you know if it eases my conscience?"

Holmes asked the bimetallic question, as it were, expectantly. Behind the projection of cheer (which is as real and yet unreal insubstantial as a film projection or a silhouette's lamp), the electrum grey eyes were bright. They need to plumb the depths of one John H. Watson and remember there are things below the firmament of his own lofty mind.

"You won't, Holmes." Watson set his tobacco down. He was proud of himself for cutting down to once a day, and that in the evening. Once he returned to the Continent, that indulgence would be only during the light of day. "Not until you speak what is on your mind."

It was not a coy game they played. They knew each other so well by now that it was merely a dance of words; poetry and behavior.

"I was thinking of Prince Linchnowsky, Watson. I had the honour of his company once. I was Sigerson at the time. But while a man can know a man's character without ever knowing their true identity, so I believe I learnt the Prince's without having to ask for his credentials."

"And it is the knowing of the man that troubles you tonight?"

Holmes did not answer at first; not yet. "He tried very hard, Watson, to keep his country out of war. And what was his reward? To become an exile."

"He is not an exile yet, Holmes!" Watson knew from the papers he combed through in his civic duty, such news had not been created.

"The day is near, old fellow." Holmes spoke heavily at that, and it was heavy in a way that Watson had not heard in a long time…a long time and yet too short a time, for it echoed of the old Black Moods and paralyzing immobility.

The doctor, feeling his age more in his brain than his body on that night, rose without a word and poured them both brandies out of the side-board shelf.

"I met him on my exile, but that hardly bears a record for tonight, Watson." Holmes had returned to his preferred chair. "What matters is what happened in July of this year." He pulled his violin into his lap but did not attempt its strings. It was enough of a comfort to keep it there.

"A month before your return, Holmes?" Watson thought back to the August evening where they had worked against Von Bork together.

"He was the only diplomat for Germany that protested what was happening, Watson. The _only_ voice of reason in the crisis.3 When we offered to mediate between the Serbo-Croation dispute, he was the only one who agreed for us. That was on the 25th, Watson. Only two days later, he was cabling to the Kaiser how Germany could not survive a Continental War. And then what happened, Watson! Not twenty-four hours later he cables to his country, reminding them that Our King has pressed for a meeting of Ambassadors to offset this growing malaise! And then! It was on the fateful 29th of that month that the prophetic words are cabled from the Prince's hands: 'if war breaks out it will be the greatest catastrophe the world has ever seen.' Too late! By the time his message was being transcribed in Berlin, the Austrian troops were bombing Belgrade."

Watson knew from long and bitter experience that when his friend was wallowing in too-sharp memories, the only solution was to create a deflection. That great brain was intelligent; but it was too predatory to be wholly focused. Like any predator, it would light its attention upon whatever tiny mouse ran before its eyes, and it was his duty to provide the mouse.

"Do you disagree that the Prince should have returned home?" He asked. "He may have given policies the government disagreed with, but you'll note he was given a hero's welcome with a military honour guard. That is almost unheard of, Holmes."

"The Germans are vulnerable to their own sentiments, as much as an Englishman." Holmes turned away as he spoke, but something of his brittle edge had melted from the observation. "They honoured him for his intractable honour, Watson. Because he simply must do what he believes is right. In that I believe we could share that feeling."

"Then what is the core of your restlessness, Holmes? Pray tell me."

"My restlessness, as you so kindly put it, is a terrible foreknowledge." Holmes sighed and plucked at his own cigarette-case nervously. "He is on the soil of his homeland now, Watson. But that cannot possibly last. He is an exile in all but fact. The time is coming where this remarkable man will be refused his own lands. And what will happen? He will speak the truth and the truth has ceased to be fashionable. His enemies will point out the fact that his family has held the Prussian title for only four-and fifty years! They may refer to the _Durchlaucht,__4_Watson, but it will not hold. Prussia will reject its faithful son. The only son who speaks the truth."

Watson was silent, waiting.

"Well, Watson? Have you a perspective to this madness? You are a man of forthright justice. How would you philosophize upon the bitterness of integrity facing such punishment?"

"I," Watson hesitated. Holmes was looking upon him with the unique mix of judgment and anticipation and ready condemnation. "You have broached the topic of salt, my dear Holmes. How can I be surprised? The Prince is the newest Cap o' Rushes."

Holmes permitted himself the control necessary to touch his match to the tip of his cigar. In the yellow haze of the lamp light it created a greyness upon the rising smoke. He turned his head to watch as he threw the match into the low-burning fire and in that moment, looked more like an Eagle than ever. "Pray, Watson, explain yourself. I fail to fathom your answer to the smallest point."

"I am sorry, Holmes…it is an old tale I grew up with…if I'm to believe the man who first set it into print it predates even the presence of Christianity upon these shores." Watson took a light sip. "I suppose I remember it so well of late as I've been going through the fables and short stories for my children."

"Your children are old enough to be past the age of fables, Watson." Holmes pointed this out patiently.

"Not if they want to learn how to be writers. The simple yet poignant style is a good example to follow."

Holmes grimaced at the smug gleam in his friend's eyes. "Continue, Watson."

"The Prince is only doing what comes natural, Holmes. Just as the child of the throne is exiled for speaking the truth. It is a matter of salt."

"Again, you fail to explain. Please do so."

"Have you truly never heard the story of the child who spoke of salt to her father the King?"

"If it was a fairy-tale, you should know me better. My brain-attic has finite space within it."

"Poppycock, Holmes. If any brain _lacks_ limits it is yours—a fact of which that you should be aware." Watson briefly permitted his fond annoyance through his voice. "There was a powerful king with three daughers whom he loved dearly, but only the youngest one loved him faithfully. One day he asked his children how much did they love him, and the first one said, "I love you, father, as greatly as the depths of the ocean," and the second said, "I love you, father, as widely as the expanse of the skies above," and all these things pleased the king's vanity. But when he came to his youngest, expecting more of the same, he was disappointed. For the child answered, "I love you, Father, as much as food loves salt." This was too humble and ordinary a praise after the words of her sisters, and the king believed this meant she did not love him. And so, she became an exile. With the green rushes upon the water-ways she wove herself new clothes and a cap, and became Cap o' Rushes."

Watson finished his drink and set the glass down; he laced his fingers together over his knee. "But the child was an exile only in name, Holmes. Not a day passed that she had passed herself off as a beggar at the King's own kitchen, and was put to work as a scullery maid. She did all she was told and never gave cause to be noticed or scolded, but all the time she was waiting. One day after an indefinite amount of time had passed, a great Ball was announced and the child contrived to keep all the salt out of the food being served. You might imagine the reaction of the guests when they sat at such a table, tired and hungry after so much dancing!" Holmes chuckled his appreciation.

"At this point, the King wept for he realised how much his youngest had loved him. The waiting girl took the moment and revealed herself to him and they were united. My old nurse insists that she inherited the realm when he died; who is to say? Women tell one story, men another."

"And with your illumination, you make a succinct point." Holmes barked. His humour was quick as lightning, and as quick to leave. "So our Prince is the exile for salt, eh? But in your story there is a guarantee of reconciliation."

"If a story does not end, there is no room to make for the next one, Holmes." Watson pointed out. He straightened, his bad leg stiff for a moment. "While they never truly end, we have to create the start and finish for our own gratification." Ever the military man, he neatly brushed his cigar-ashes into the tin set aside for the purpose. "That story has been in my mind much of late; I suppose because I will be working with men who only a few years ago, were young enough to read such fables."

Holmes sighed through his nose and looked upon a fine watercolour of the Downs in bloom. "They are fortunate to have you, just as we are bereaved at your absence."

"We all make promises we intend to keep." Watson pointed out. "It has been thirty-three years since I have been able to keep mine." He sighed. "You said it yourself, Holmes. I am a military man. Nothing could ever quite tame my edges. Doubtless things have changed since my youth, but there will always be a need for a supervisor for the medical corps…someone who has a small grasp of strategy when juggling wounded men and battles."

"Doubtless!" Holmes declared. "Doubtless, Watson. I pray you continue to practice the discretion that was the mark of your talents, and return home when this foul wind ceases its infernal blowing."

"You'll be glad to see me go soon enough." Watson's smile was bright under the mischief. "I plan on spending my last breakfast with you regaling tales of the young ones." He laughed once at Holmes' shudder of revulsion. "I shall bid you good-night, Holmes, for I need to get my rest. The train will not be a soothing way to journey, and I shall be fighting for the right to keep my bags with me the whole time!"

Holmes watched him go. The years had passed since their first meeting—passed and then some. Three and sixty years of age—threescore and three years. Unlike many men of his acquaintance, Watson looked right in his years; he looked content within his skin and Holmes admired him all the more for his bravery in following his own nature.

The restlessness of an unfinished cause had always been a part of John H. Watson. He had not meant to leave his war early—not when it meant leaving what little remained of his friends behind. Now he had the chance to even up the scores set in time.

Holmes prided himself on his scientifically accurate language. He was precise in his wordings, his terminology, and his sentence structure. It had served him well for many years; his languor throwing off-balance the powerful fools who came to consult him, while the very precision of his speech left them guessing and floundering as to his origins. Language was a tool and he'd learnt its wise use.

But he had no words that would adequately describe John H. Watson…and he had not the powers to create words to suit.

Behind him a faint rattle made him turn. The wind from the Channel had slipped through the fine cracks. He watched in mental silence as the faintest of vibrations betrayed the will of Nature against the weakest point of his shelter. He thought of his bees, and how they were doubtless ready to act even on a night such as this.

Wind. Intangible, marked only by what it carries…and otherwise invisible.

1 Doyle's analogy is not unique. J. R. R. Tolkien's analogy of the East Wind being of ill-omen is believed a relic of World War I.

2 Not a colour, but a light to medium weight wool.

3 The July Crisis

4 Serene Highness


	3. Soldier's Heart

**First Battle of the Marne:**

**Date**: 1914, September 5-12

**Location**: Marne River, France

**Consequence**: The first Allied victory against the Germans. Longterm Consequence: Four years of unrelenting trench warfare.

**Soldiers**: Over 2,000,000

**Killed or wounded**: French: 250,000 wounded, 80,000 dead.

**Killed or wounded**: British: 13,000 wounded, 1,700 dead.

**Killed or wounded**: German. 220,000 wounded and dead

**Total casualties**: more than half a million; one-quarter of the engaged troops.

-

**September 17, 1914**

_…have rec'vd your shipment as follows:_

_* On Railway and Other Injuries of the Nervous System_.

* _Erichsen's Disease and the Hospital_

_Have you been able to find the transcripts of the meetings of the Imperial Society of Physicians in Vienna, 1886? The very same __Hermann Oppenheim__ of our previous discussion, had an interesting claim that railway spine symptoms are due to the actual physical damage to the spine or brain. While I was not able to attend or witness that great man, I hear it was closely argued by our worthy Herbert Page and __Jean-Martin Charcot__ that some of these symptoms could be caused by hysteria._

_I feel both sides are correct but not wholly correct on their own. There are physiological and mental consequences of war to the soldier, and we must research this as soon as we can. _

_There is an interesting report on DaCosta's Syndrome, or soldier's heart, by DaCosta himself. This may be our closest reference in applying to the study of the effects of war upon our soldier's brain. As you recall, Dr. DaCosta studied the soldiers of the American Civil War most closely. Surely there must be a record of his report in the archives? 1871 is not such a long period of time after all…_

-

Dr. Watson set aside the latest paperwork with the dull gratitude of a man who at least knows he does not yet need glasses to reap sense out of reports. Behind him the sun was setting over the Continent. It cast gloaming shadows across the foot-worn planks of the ancient farmhouse.

As a young man, he would have only concerned himself with the physical dramatics of the Corps. His generation had not enjoyed the luxuries of nearby train lines, nor efficient charts of enclosed ambulance wagons. If his memory served, there weren't even this many horses at the disposal of the Berkshires; their water needs had been too great.

The doctor reluctantly discarded the past; there was little sense in spending time in comparisons unless one was going to look for previous cases that might be of success in the here and now. This was today; he was a Lieutenant-Colonel and responsible for a very particular job less than five miles from the enemy. He rolled his shoulders and rose to his feet, reaching for his walking-stick without thinking. He needed the aid far less than he had in his youth; the old floors were uneven and had been about to face repair before the British troops had moved in.

He thought of the owners, a pleasant enough elderly couple now in Switzerland. A Swabian husband and an Alsace wife had been no greatly unusual thing before the war. Now he wondered if they could ever return. He would sympathize with any man or woman who regretted leaving such a beautiful place. The Marne was truly inspiring. Battered with unrelenting violence, it was still…

Watson sighed, thinking of all the prints and poems and books of prints he'd seen throughout his life in honour of the region. The slim ribbon of river peeped through the dusty window—the orderlies were kept busy to the point of sleeplessness cleaning the makeshift hospital. And yet, it was the best of their options.

_This will work_, he thought to himself. _We will make it work._ If only he could prove that he had Holmes to blame for this promotion. Such trickery was perfectly suited to the man.

A young man in smart uniform saluted with crisp grace even as he produced a sheaf of correspondence with his left hand. "Lieutenant-Colonel Watson; returning messages from Colonel Boise, sir."

"Very good, Lieutenant." Watson took the papers. "Remember tomorrow when we have our French hosts, not to pass anything to them with your left hand. It is considered uncouth in this country." The writer in him wanted to explain the word _gauche_,1 but that would be frivolous.

"I shall remember, sir." The boy was about to turn with a salute and click of the heels, but Watson's words returned. "Our hosts, sir? I am mistaken in thinking we are hosting them?"

Watson quirked his mouth easily as he slipped the papers into his breast pocket. "A small distinction to be sure. While we are in charge of this hospital, I would confess that as long as this is French land, I would find myself living under their benefice." His smile was slight and strangely distant to the young man's eyes. "Manners should never be a burden…"

He watched the youth clip away, his boots polished to the point that they shone like obsidian. Lieutenant Klinger was one of those few men who thrived upon a world of rule and order. The question was could he adapt if thrust into anarchy and chaos? Hence the unobtrusive hospital resting along the running sweep of the Marne.

Watson buried his concerns for the boy for one more day. Time would tell; it would soon enough.

He finished his trail to the back of the villa slowly. Here and there ghosts met his passage; orderlies, nurses, volunteers and the chaplains. They flitted about him silently, knowing their duties. Doors opened and shut; he smelled carbolic and linseed.

He was almost outside when a familiar head popped out of the side-door that led to the enclosed gardens. He was lean, wiry, and wore the sloping angles of the Scot as opposed to Watson's level-straight sleeve ranks that denoted an Englishman. This never failed to amuse Watson; Doward was as Welsh as rarebit.

"Hallo, Watson. Back so soon? Did they forget to send you that last sack from the post?"

Watson held up the handful of neatly folded paper. "Just arrived. I thought to have some tea before I made any decisions."

"Wise, that. Do you want to hear my report before you sit down?"

"Why don't you sit down with me, Todd?"

"I might at that. It's been a day and a half with my men, I tell you. No wonder the Aussies pressed to have their own encampment." Doward pressed the door open with his fingertips to allow Watson room. "I have coffee ready; would you like a cup?"

"Coffee would be a treat, thank you."

"Not at all." The leathery old soldier shut the door to the small library room and moved to a pot warming at the low-burning fire in the grate. "I take it you heard of the horrors between French and Lanrezac?"

"I heard enough." Watson told him heavily. "Prideful, aren't they? Not that I deny we've lost men from both armies because of miscommunication. But being angry and shouting at each other isn't liable to help."

"Lord, no." Doward passed over a metal cup of a thick inky brew. "I've been here since the start of this _cawl_,2 Watson. I don't mind telling you things were looking desperate for all of us. It's been a nonstop retreat back to Paris since August. I can't say the Fifth Army is to blame for the delays in helping us…when you think of the language barriers alone it's enough to lift the hair." He pressed powdered milk and odd-sized softsugar lumps to the other man and rose to tend to the fire.

"French _won't_ go against Kitchener. He'll not repeat his mistakes." Watson spoke firmly, because the alternative was not something a man ought to think about until he had to. The what-ifs of the world would, if absorbed all at once, prevent anyone from crawling out of bed in the morning.

"As you say. In the meantime we're in charge of building up this little hospital and making something great out of it. What say you to that?"

Watson had taken a moment to open the first of the post. He glanced up with a cloud upon his normally clear brown eyes. "It looks like we'll have to watch out for observation balloons soon."

"We knew that would happen." Doward answered philosophically. "What else?"

"General Boise wants us to paint the roofs of every building on this farm with the medical cross. I suppose in the hope to prevent a torpedo over our heads?" Watson scratched his head. "Doward, we haven't a drop of paint to work with! I know every column of the inventories!"

Doward tried to think of something supportive. "Is there anything else?"

Watson examined the next letter. "We have permission to slaughter the beeves to feed the men and also donate to the mission relief stations…we are respectfully advised to consider rationing out this boon as long as we may. I can't blame them for that advice. Twelve beeves seems like a wealth of meat, but it can only go so far." He tucked the papers away and rubbed at his moustache. "Better than the horrid sort of rations they're getting!" He chuffed softly, considerately. "In the meantime we have company coming…the French officials, and you can bet they will bring their wives."

"Oh." Doward winced his understanding. "_Yes_. The men wouldn't dare come unaccompanied with their wives."

Watson rubbed his fingertips against his brow. "Those beeves are old enough to have been served at the Second Boer War! If they're hoping we can make an appropriate dish out of them in time for the banquet…"

"You _are_ concerned." Doward noted.

"We _must_ be on good terms with the French. They'll think more kindly of us if we remain courteous and neighborly…" Watson gnawed on his bottom lip. "And the citizens are suffering as well. Doward, who would be trusted to take care of slaughtering one of those beeves?"

"Harker." Doward said without missing a breath. "What _are_ you thinking?"

"Savouries. Beef aspic. Something that would be worth the effort. The civilians have been suffering as much as we have, old fellow…What if we offered up the proverbial fatted calf for the dining?"

"_That_ calf passed to the age of forgetfulness quite some time ago." Doward pointed out. 'I suggest we deal with the old piebald horror that likes to hover at the gate. I saw it trying to stamp one of the hens."

"Excellent choice." Watson slapped the paper in his palm. "Put Harker in charge…give him the freedom to appoint _whoever_ he needs for assistance, and I want everything put to use of that bull save the bellow. That old camp-man knows every trick man ever came up with." He stopped for a moment, thinking. "Tell him to appropriate the best cuts of meat; that will go to the cooks. We shall see what they can conjure out of what they have. Head-cheese is simple enough for the digestion of the men, and it is far more innocuous to their visual palate than a thick steak oozing blood. The kitchen has a meat-grinder; I saw it when I was inspecting the property." Doward rose, his cup to his lips. "Don't go just yet. Finish your coffee first. I'm thinking of putting Crispin in charge of the roof-painting. Are you in need of him?"

"No; he finished up his work yesterday when he polished up the last of the hospital rooms." Doward stroked his chin. "By George, Watson. I think we might work up something good. There are a few oil lamps in the back. I could rig up a small stove that uses their flame as heat. The slower the heat, the more tender the meat; we could probably serve up the hooves and horns in a stew if we work it right."

"Then we have one problem solved in our minds and have but to deal with the second." Watson turned his face to the wall of books—a lifetime of careful collection—and ran his fingertip across the gilt spines. These had not been books for show. Years of gentle touch had dulled the gold while polishing the leather to a polished gleam.

"I say. How are we to paint the roofs if we have no paint?"

Watson made a weary face. "We have quicklime for the treatment of the dead. We can spare a portion for making whitewash."

Doward's thick, brushy brows lifted. "If you're certain…"

"It needs to be done. If we're truly hard up for quicklime, I'll have a kiln rigged up and we'll burn more lime out of the rock itself. If we _prevent_ casualties it will be that fewer men to bury. Have the men mix up the paint."

"That's only the white part of the mix." Doward pointed out. "We have nothing to make red."

Watson rose to his feet so quickly that Doward was taken by surprise. The man strode unevenly to the small library window and stared out of the roundels to the worn-out lands on the other side.

"We have it." Watson said quietly. "We'll use the blood of the bull we kill tonight."

"Sir?" Doward was startled.

"It will work. I've seen it work. First the slaughter of the animals one couldn't keep over the winter…and then the use of their remains. The blood was kept aside and made into paint…" Watson rubbed the head of his walking-stick fiercely. "It will have to do. It must do. There are large tubs in the back of the barn…I believe they were used for collecting the blood at slaughter-time. We'll use that to store the blood. While Harker's men work on the killing and processing, Crispin's men will mix up the whitewash…have his team split; we need a coat of white first, and then a cross of blood."

Doward swallowed; Watson heard it behind his back. "Do you think we'll be attacked so quickly?"

"I have no idea." Watson did not turn around. "But because I do _not_ know, I will not take chances."

"If I may, I'll go find them now." Doward barely whispered. "As you say. We are wasting time."

"You'll waste the largest amount of time getting that bull into the paddock." Watson made a thin attempt at humour.

"Possibly…but there are a few tricks left in this old fellow just yet."

Watson listened to his departure on the old boards. He was left by degrees to his own silence and the murmur of the fire. About him barely-audible thumps and vibrations moved throughout the old structure.

Blood from something alive…to prevent the loss of more lives.

The irony did not escape the doctor.

He could only hope that the scheme—poorly thought out and purely spontaneous—would perform.

He was worried about their chances. Airships were not a small concern. They were the largest thing in his world; he dreaded encountering something any larger!

And below it all rested the problems of his small hospital. He struggled daily since his appointment to accept the weight of this honour--burden might be a better term--for no one, French, British, German or ally to either, had a place specifically designed for the men suffering from Soldier's Heart.

If this noble experiment failed, the consequences would be the final destruction of these men who fought.

_But I must do this._ He ran his finger over the bowed spines; a familiar gesture to him because it soothed him. Books had that effect on him. _ I must do this. Who better to treat a man who is sick from the horrors of war than an old soldier who suffered the same malady? But I need references; I need existing examples to study, and to create arguments for the doubters...especially for the doubters who believe this is a weakness of cowards. These men need help. The supply lines are fitful; I can request books but there is no guarantee they will come...  
_

Watson was a romantic, but not overly fanciful. Experience was the hardest coin of the realm with the greatest value. He certainly had no patience for the moonshine of nonsense like phrenology or judging a man by his hair-colour. Until this moment, he had placed the art of dowsing in these same superstitious categories.

His finger had stopped upon one of the old farmer's books.

_Sophocles_.

His heart began to pound.

Of course. Sophocles. The

Watson stared at the book of plays under his hand. His eyes swept across its companions. One shelf to another.

A lifetime of reading.

What else had this old man collected throughout his life?

It looks as though I would be advised to put my love of reading to a higher purpose...

Another book had caught his eye.

_Hippocrates_.

Watson felt his heart pound against his uniform. It was the same book--the very same edition of his youth, when at Netley he reached his perfect crossroads of life and had no prospects or notions of what to do. Out of money and at a loss--had he made the right decision when taking the Queen's shilling?--he had pulled this very same book off the shelf and opened it at random.

On the open pages his eye had struck the most important statement of his life, by the founder of medicine.

_If you must know surgery, then go to war._

-

1 Left-handed.

2 mess


	4. Preparing for the Winds

"You have nothing to fear."

Said within the one room wherein speech was permitted, the largest of the three men was also the least excitable. His audience was more effusive in the silent language of the body—positively disgraceful with their relief, and it was with a growing satisfaction that Mycroft Holmes watched his guests leave.

It was, he thought, an inefficient government when the Queen Consort would be put to suspicion for writing letters to her own aunt.

That the aunt happened to also be the Grand Duchess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz and was living well within the enemy interests and lines of Germany was almost besides the original point. Suspicion was rising like a warm wind in spring and it had little of the wholesome attached to it.

The younger of his clients had openly hesitated but permitted his senior in staff to do all the speaking even when he disagreed. Mycroft did not take that as an encouraging sign. Young men will someday be successors; suspicions to the Royal Family were never far but during wartime, tended to be inflammatory. Whispers of Republicanism were rising—not to anyone's great surprise.

The big man grunted to himself and pressed his hands over his watch-chain as the mantelpiece clock ticked to the supper hour. Few men could admit to such gratitude of retirement as much as Mycroft Holmes. It barely concerned him that the retirement was more titular than real; room had to be made for his successors and in the meantime he was content to maintain the lines of retirement whilst keeping his ear upon the quiet affairs for the government.

A man was not expected to give up the clubs of his frequence after his work ended; at the Diogenes Mycroft's only change of pace was that his work was now in the restful silence of his unclubbable brethren. If anything, his productivity had improved. A building wrapped in pure peace and quiet was a happier afterlife to the chatter and rattle of his accounting-office.

The big man moved slowly to his preferred chair in the corner. To all appearances he was simply waiting the final quarter-hour until the serving of the Friday woodcock with autumn dressing. Anyone empowered with the ability to look through half-shut eyelids to the brain beneath would be astonished at its multitudinous analysis and functions.

Murmurs were like mice; one knew of their existences and how they thrived just outside the blatant gaze. Their natural habitat was in hiding; behind the walls and wainscoting.

It happened in increments…Murmurs among the people beginning in the markets. People were worried and that made them talk more than ever—and alas, about nonsensical things. They preferred prattling about the weather rather than admit they knew too little about the war to venture opinions.

It galled his clean and mathematical sensibilities, but these murmurs had to be done. He thought of this every day. That was, alas, to be expected.

The wonder was that these conclusions had _not_ happened long ago. This land, this government, was _English_…yet the Monarchy had the bulk of its ties across the waters to Germany. The Late Queen's fecundity had enacted a sort of social consequence; there was an embarrassment of riches in the number of Victorias among the Royal Families of Europe. Even Queen Mary had originally been named Victoria Mary.

In polite society, when a man of high rank marries below him, it is referred to as a Morganistic marriage—colloquially termed the "left-hand marriage" because the groom takes his wife with his left hand instead of the right. It was how Mary of Teck had entered the Throne, and it was beginning to resemble a long-term example of how one can enter into a left-hand marriage to the world itself.

Mycroft Holmes personally admired and liked the Queen. Unlike the late and mourned Queen Victoria, this was a _true_ monarch who ruled with an active eye to her people. She placed her responsibilities before her own emotions—a strict contrast to her grandmother-in-law who had incurred many lamentable examples of petty childishness and lofty disapproval. In many ways, the Victorian Era had been one of repression as much as it had been of expansion. Her prevailing gloom had infected the populace in every example and only upon her death did the world feel it could stop mourning and breathe again. The first to breathe had been the many enemies Victoria had made simply because they had offended her sensibilities. Poets had been scorned; charities ignored; programs of benefice and even the rights of women had been stifled out of fear of lifting her ire.

Yes…the Queen Consort that walked London and stood by the side of the King was a completely different woman.

But the admiration of exquisite manners and an admirable intellect—even Sherlock would be swift to admit the woman had a brain equal to a man's—diminished with the matter of birth. _Queen Mary was German_. Her English birth could not erase her father's lineage. When she chose to be known as Mary instead of Victoria, it had been considered an example of her strategic tact and sensitivity—it would have been a far-reaching thing to adopt the name of her husband's formidable grandmother.

But now, with the winds of war swirling about the isle, murmurs of discontent were rising against the Queen. Reluctant mutters though they were, they were remembering that she had chosen to be a Mary and not a Victoria.

Mycroft doubted it would have made one gram's hang of difference in the long-term.

His work of the day had been taxing, exhausting, and uninspiring. It was also unsuccessful. As long as England viewed its own Queen with suspicion, the remainder of the Royal Family was vulnerable.

Mycroft knew what the solution to the problem was—what the only solution _could_ be. It was as clear to his mind as the bottom row of accounting.

It was a pity the Royal Family was not prepared to listen to his honesty.

It would take time.

He made a sound of dissatisfaction—a regrettable waste of energy—in the quiet of the room, and wondered how Sherlock was faring.

-

In the sloping grasses of the Sussex Downs, Sherlock was…faring. His supper was not precisely forgotten (he had learnt something of the mistakes in his past), but it would be indefinitely postponed until he finished his search of the small possessions in his cottage.

Watson had frequently described him as long, white and nervous—these descriptions particularly when noting his fingers when caught up in some precise activity such as the microscope, violin, or cocaine needle. Tonight his entire being was engaged like his hands and he flitted from corner to corner, his lean face pinched in its concentration. The large brow crimped a solid line between papery skin and the thicker skull. Even this time of year the electric lamps cast against the faintest shadow of a sun-tanning upon his hands and face.

"Hah!"

He pounced with his shadow—both thrust mad outlines against the bookish walls. He rose in triumph with both hands clutched about his fat, leathern prize. The lean, pale face was just prepared to settle into an expression of savour when the telephone rang.

"Hmph."

Holmes tucked the book under his arm and waded through a floor as riddled with books as his own coastline was after the down-tide. The telephone refused to stop its annoying shrill and he threw himself into the uncomforting depths of his overstuffed library table where the offending instrument of modernity was bolted flush to the wall.

"Yes, brother?"

"_Are you busy, Sherlock?"_

Unlike anyone else alive or dead, Mycroft _never_ asked his younger brother how he would even know his calls from anyone else's. Of all the offensively annoying habits the man had, this had to be the greatest of sins. Sherlock examined the nails of his free hand for something to do and awkwardly transferred the large book to the flat side-surface of the library chair. Leather creaked like a complaining hippo—an unfortunate description of Watson's that had sadly infected Holmes' mental vocabulary…_in perpetuity_.

"Not at this moment, brother. And never too busy for you."

"_How unlike you to say so, Sherlock. I've often wondered just how much of a damaging influence your humanitarian friend would have upon you. Or are you merely trying to adapt and change and thus spite my ordered Universe?"_

Sherlock hadn't meant to, but he laughed softly. Mycroft had that effect on him, and could create that effect whenever he wanted. "I doubt you're calling because you need my advice, my elder. Has something transpired?"

"_You requested to be informed of events in London. I felt it a bore and a waste of time to merely forward the papers to you."_

"Thus you are giving a verbal report? How delightfully efficient."

"_The winds of your colourful phrasing are blowing, Sherlock. If I must quote you, trust me to use the words that will get your attention." _On the other side of the line, Sherlock was wrenching a terrible face._ "Words can be open to interpretation, Sherlock. One sentence can mean two different things as well as you know."_

"Yes, even Lestrade knows that…I'll never forget the time he was asked by the Secretary to the Japanese Ambassador to explain sarcasm." Even now the memory was as amusing as ever.

"_And with that statement you have opened me up to one of the topics."_

"Oh?"

"_Lestrade's oldest. That is a sharp mind."_

"He favours his mother." Holmes leaned backwards and to the side, stretching his long arm for the tobacco he now had inside an obsolete metal mail-hanger.

"_I was thinking that he has his father's gift for not picking fights with irrational men of power."_

Sherlock's eyes narrowed just on principle as he parsed that sentence for double meanings, but Mycroft was still talking.

"_I may have a pretty problem come his way. It remains to see if he will notice it. The government is falling prey to the most petty and flimsy of suspicions, Sherlock. Even you would find your estimations to be generous."_

Sherlock breathed through his nose and made performance art out of packing his tobacco one-handed and seeking out the matches in the pocket of his dressing-gown. Someday, he reminded himself, Mycroft might find another way of recruiting his men for the good of the Empire. On the other hand, it was an appropriately impartial and efficient way of observing without actually having to do anything. "I shall be certain to special-order the newspapers on Monday, brother." More rumours against the Queen, then. Ridiculous. Shallow and the stuff of fools. If only the King would hurry up and fulfill his duty to the English…

"_As long as you don't go into London to make the order."_

"Have things grown worse?" Sherlock blinked.

"_No better, Sherlock. I doubt the abilities of the police to contain the genie their own superiors have released from the bottle."_

Sherlock's frown grew until it shortened the length of his face. "I expressed my concerns to you over this _before_ the war."

"_You expressed your __**opinion**__, Sherlock. There is a difference and while I do not disagree with you, there is only so much a retired accountant can do."_

**Translation: The situation of the Special Constables was rapidly approaching the undesirable status of "variable factor."**

"A cleaner wind is coming, Mycroft."

"_Yes…but it will not happen overnight, and there will be blood shed on both sides. Regrettable."_

"Yes." Sherlock thought of one particular man's blood. "I truly hope you have better news than that, Mycroft. I have not yet eaten and would prefer something to aid my digestion."

"_You ought to stop borrowing your _role_ from your family, Sherlock…as to the pleasant news…a polite man saves it for last."_

"Go on, brother mine." Holmes threw the still-glowing match to sail, end over end, across the room in a smooth arc before its swan's song ended in the fireplace.

"_Watson is settled at the Marne. He has wasted no time in making note among the soldiers."_

"How very like Watson."

"_Yes…We may trust him to be a voice of sensibility."_

"I have never failed to trust him in that respect, Mycroft."

"_Never, Sherlock?"_

Mycroft only grew drier as opposed to sarcastic. Being dry took less energy. Sherlock laughed.

"Never…as to my obeying his advice…that was a separate issue." He rested his elbow on the book comfortably, stopping only to blow a singular ring of smoke against the ceiling.

"_One hopes you have made rebalance to him on occasion, Sherlock."_

"I assure you, Mycroft," Sherlock smiled down at the book in his possession. _The Wind in the Willows_ looked back at him. Watson had thought to hide his love of the children's work from him; his efforts had been laudable but still futile. Now Watson's copy was his to read—he had done worse things in his life than this when it came to understanding the man who had been his longest companion. "My efforts in that regard are tireless and ongoing."


	5. Steady Now

"Hold it steady now…"

"Yes, Tad." Nicholas Lestrade was large as an ox, twice as patient, and _almost_ as strong…But at the first blow of his father's hammer off the iron nail-head against the wood, he cringed. In vain he hoped it had gone unnoticed.

"There, see? I told you to mind the brew, lad." With an amused chuckle, Tad leaned down from his position on top of his office-desk and tapped his large son gently with his knuckles against the brow.

"I didn't drink as much as _you_!" Nick protested. "Why is it you're still scarpering about the furniture like a squirrel and I've got a lopsided head?"

"Because," Tad pointed out blandly, as he adjusted the new curtain-rod a bit up and re-poised his hammer, "I had the smarts to eat first. Nothing like mashers and gravy to help you hold it in, Nick." _Wham_. "You're a grown man, my boy." _Wham-**wham**._ "Time you started cheating like one." Satisfied with the results, he hopped to the ground. "All right. That's the last of it."

Nick blew out like a whale, a man not quite in the line where physical prime meets genuine wisdom, and stepped back too. His father's tiny office was clad in a blue beige curtain on their side; on the outside the new shutters were snapped tight. It was gloomy and full of dusk…and it felt safer.

"We'll know better about it tonight." Tad promised. "I don't want a bit of light leaking out."

"Where did you learn this trick, Tad?" Nick was genuinely curious.

"From old Dooley, God rest his soul. He wouldn't buy a caravan, a cart, or even a narrowboat until he crept in it with a candle in the dead of night in the dark of the moon outside city limits and looked for light shining through. Tight as a drum. Even in the heart of winter, you'd need little more than a candle to warm his little caravan." Tad straightened with a complaining sort of sigh. "That's that. All the windows are covered. How fares the zoo?"

"Not too badly…Mr. Lewis fixed up what windows we could, but the animals may be better off than the caretakers…they've got iron bars on all sides you know." Nicholas gloomily set the remaining square nails inside the old coffee-can. "I didn't think when I said I'd take on the night shifts this week. Now Mamm's going to worry."

"She has no choice but to worry." Tad answered seriously. "She's your mamm after all! But the last thing she'd have you do is stop living. So understand that she must worry, and remember you're supposed to make your own way in life." He picked up a dust-rag and threw it at him. "Is that the only reason why you're down in the mouth?"

"Not really, no. Joby's signed up. So has Todd." Nick tightened his lips, which sent his chin outward. "That leaves me and Martin and Tommy."

"Feeling left out?" Tad guessed shrewdly. "Now on this, I won't apologise for being glad the two of you are staying home."

"Everyone else is going. They're doing their part. I don't suppose I'll feel right, watching them going off…knowing that not all of them will be coming back." With a sudden savage gesture, Nick threw his hand-rag into the coffee can. "If I'm not going off with them, then I'm one of the people they'll be fighting…and dying for."

Tad said nothing, but Nick felt no lighter from his confession. Father and son finished tidying up the last of the mess and swept up the thin scraps of wood for the fire.

"I can understand Martin being kept behind. He's working for the government. But me…if it wasn't for this broken eardrum, I'd be in uniform right now."

"And if it hadn't been for my twisted foot, it would have been me in one of the wars that came before." Tad held out his tobacco-pouch, and Nick was gracious enough to accept. Under unspoken consensus they stopped working and sat down by the low-burning fire with a quick smoke. Beneath them rattled the fuss and bustle of Mamm and the girls. From what sounds coming through the boards, it involved sewing.

"Nick…when you talk of the others doing their part…have you thought of what part you're doing _here_?"

Nick exhaled with a baleful look. "It's not the same."

"No. It's not the same and I'm not pretending it is. But also think about what you're doing for London. You're the last qualified technician for the zoo. I know you're glad of the better pay…"

"I am, but Ivy's menfolk are _all_ leaving, and they're not passing up a chance to give their minds. I could pick 'em all up with one hand but it still wouldn't be a fair fight."

"No…no, it wouldn't." Tad smoked a bit. "Thinking ahead, are we? Not just now, but after the War, and when people ask what you did…you think you'll be ashamed of the answer." He hopped to his feet and went to the newly-shrouded window. "Dark as a Cornishman's house, this is." He complained. "Keep yours eyes about you, Nick. That's all I can say. If you're wanting opportunity…it will be out there. But you have to watch, and a lot of times you have to wait."

"I suppose." Nick answered. For him this was a concession. He was more open-minded than the majority of the Cheatham relatives he favoured…but he was every inch as stubborn.

"Now if you want to be thinking ahead…"

Nicholas groaned. "Whatever you're thinking, no. I can see that look in your eye."

His father tried to look innocent, but he failed miserably. "Merely wondering where you'd be setting up rooms in the house after the marriage…" As his son strangled, he peacefully puffed more tobacco. "Now that the Wickersons have the basement, that leaves the attic…or those skinny rooms off to the side…not bad if one is thrifty with the space and the furniture…of course that means being careful when ordering the furniture…if I were you I'd make the measurements first and then ask Miss Ivy to select what she wants within those…" At his son's mixture of expressions, the speech ended in a sputter of helpless laughter.

"No matter what, it will all be a comparison game." Nick poked at one of his mother's books by the table-lamp.

Tad cleared his throat. "I _know_ Ivy's parents, Nick. Twenty years ago they were still making furniture out of orange crates. Two children and the parents to the bed, three more in a trundle. Even for Crown Court, they had some desperation about them and they were part of the lot that was forcibly moved out when we had to condemn the whole area." His dark eyes had a hard edge to them as he regarded his son. "If they're going to be hard on _you_, consider they may want to hide their own shortcomings."

Nick looked ready to be convinced.

"Nick…did you ever tell them why you have a bad eardrum?"

Nick shook his head, no. "I never thought about it."

"I suggest you do so. And you can tell Ivy's family to blame the Dynamiters for your invalidation."

-

Clea Lestrade had spent most of a beautiful morning in the soothing productivity of quilting with daughters and neighbors…another family would sleep snug under the layers of linen by the end of the week.

"Mind you be certain that Mr. Jacobi gives you the full amount for those fish!" She paused at the door while her daughters found their hats and veils.

"Mr. Jacobi always slips minnows in with the bigger fish." Jenny complained, sending her older sister to look upon the ceiling in patience.

"We can take a few smelt-sized pieces of fish." Clea reminded her. "It all works out the same when you're cooking!" She laughed out loud at Jenny's silent dramatics. "On with you! And I'll see you back before Meat Tea."

"When shall we be going back to afternoon teas?" Margaret asked in her soft voice.

"When it looks like most of us _can_ attend, love. Things have changed in the work-schedules." Foot-falls alerted the women from the upstairs. "Off with you, and I'll have a good bread with whatever you bring back."

"Clea?" Her husband called.

"Down here," she called back, already moving up the steps at the same time he was descending. They met at the epicentre of the stair-well.

"You sent them both out together?"

"Yes…don't look so worried."

"I wouldn't be if the fish wasn't so close to that…" With effort, he stitched his lips together.

"Where is Nick?"

"I told him to go take a nap. He'll be up all the night as it is…"

"It's not as if he's sleeping." Clea complained. "That Ivy has his head turned."

"Not so much Ivy as her family, I think…Troubles of the heart." Geoffrey leaned down from the higher step to kiss his wife on the cheek. "Those Downeys again! Ivy's the only one of the lot worth salvaging! But the girl's too good. She'll be splitting her life down the middle between Nick and her parents…especially if they have any say to it."

"That does sound terrible." Clea pressed her teacup into her husband's hands. "Sit you down and drink you this. The girls will be back soon."

"For what? Am I going to face their beaus as well?"

"Heavens I would hope not!" Clea flicked him with her well-worn apron as they returned to the small sitting-room that served as the guest bedroom, Clea's office and library. "Sit and we'll have a moment before we're interrupted."

"I'd almost welcome the distraction, Love." But Geoffrey leaned back with his feet against the ottoman. "Those Downeys, I swear they'll be the death of me someday…" He gulped his tea in a sudden motion.

"That bad, eh?"

"Remember that night back in the First Year when I came home gibbering from the fleas and lice I'd picked up from Crown Court?"

Clea grimaced, but just as quickly laughed. "I remember you half-pickled yourself in the bath with the salts to get the little devils out, and the whole time you were cursing enough to blush a sailor…or were you just making words up as you went along?

"Possibly a bit…the point is, the Downeys were among the people driven out of that condemned area. They've risen in the world, that's the truth, but they were a bit quick to forget their old past."

"I can't help but wonder that they were so quick to show their uncertainty at the choice of their daughter's prospects." Clea's visage turned lofty as that of her father back in his prime days of intimidating strange men.

"Now they're nervous as cats too close to the hospital."

"Now _that's_ a grand way of putting it. I can't say as how I even paid attention to them…little matter of a suspicious death in their building, but they didn't have anything to do with it."

Alone—which was a rare event—the two subsided into their usual stations by the fireplace. Only in the most adust[1] days of August could they let the fire go out; low embers glowed like cherries at their feet; Clea picked up her weaving-sticks. She could work with her hands without having to see what she was doing. Geoffrey leaned back and the peace was marked by his occasional drink of tea and throat-clearing.

"Is something on your thoughts, dear?"

"Plenty, now that all the Bulldogs will be taken off and put back in storage…"[2] He rose and traded his teacup for his morning pipe. "I feel as though we've been up all night," he half-complained. "And I'm certain Martin has."

"No doubt. His family keeps him hopping."

"At least he gets along with his in-laws. I think they would have adopted him if given the chance." Geoffrey grumbled half-heartedly.

-

The girls returned flushed under their dust-veils and chattering over a collision of friends by the tea-shop. Clea saw how Geoffrey dropped some of his nervousness to find their daughters back and whole without any signs of trouble. The streets were not as safe as they had once been, and she knew from long experience that the 'old coppers' were taking this rise in crime as a personal failure.

Not that she could fault them that reasoning. They had worked hard, long, grueling six-day weeks with at least twelve hour shifts to make the world safer by just a bit more. To see a reversal was not just a slap in their own faces, it was every past complaint about their efficiency coming back to haunt them, all the way back to their lowliest Constable days.

It was something they all knew—it simmered beneath the very floor-boards of the building and created a pall in each room. Clea dismissed it for the moment as she and the girls set up the pan for a fish-fry. Times might be difficult, but they were at least managing…

"…old Gorgon!" Jenny was laughing.

"Hush, Jenny! You mustn't!" Margie tried not to look amused under her disapproval.

"Who is the old Gorgon?" Clea wondered.

"Woman-police-constable Barker!" Jenny blushed, knowing such points of conversation would lift the ire of her father and the concern of her mother. "Well, she is."

"You saw her today?" Clea hoped she sounded calm and unconcerned.

"Yes, but she didn't see us." Jenny said proudly. Clea was horrified. "She was too busy harassing the Lephews for loitering."

"Well, try to stay out of her eye, would you please?" Clea's heart pounded against the brooch pinned to her throat.

"Yes…please do."

The temperature in the kitchen plummeted to January.

Geoffrey was standing just behind her in the doorway with the coal-scuttle in his hands. While they now owned the entire building, they were between work-maids to help defray the costs and he had thought to see to the ashes before headed to the coal-pit.

Clea, caught within both sides, didn't know which was worse: the pale, set look on her husband's face, or the red-faced contrition and bashful defiance in her daughters.

"Girls…making a game of the police is no laughing matter."

A cat's purr was not as soft as his voice.

"We know, Father." Margaret assured him quickly.

"I'm not certain you do." Geoffrey pulled his breath in and held it. He set the empty bucket to the floor and gripped his hands until the bone stood white under the skin. "Woman Police Constable Barker wears the badge for a reason. One doesn't have to like her, or love her. But she wears the badge and for that she deserves respect." He relented in the stillness of the room. "She's been on patrol less than three months. Most of the newcomers try too hard to perform their duty, believing they won't be taken seriously. The Women Police are the brunt of enough scorn and mockery as it is."

A thousand more words hovered behind his mouth—they could all see it. And were surprised when he shut them down, picked up the scuttle and went back to his work.

*

Clea found him with a full coal-scuttle and a broom. He appeared to be trying to sweep the corners of the coal-pit free of dust. She coughed against the motes floating in the air and he turned as swift as a skittish horse.

"You shouldn't be down here," he accused.

"My lungs have been our concern for five years. We can be frivolous for a few moments." Her shoe-soles ground coal-dust beneath the hard-packed earth. "Come upstairs, Love. You can't be angry in the basement forever."

"I don't know if it is being angry." He stamped the end of the broom into the pile and leaned against the tip of the long handle, crushing the corn-straw bristles. "There's too much going on, going about, Clea. There's ruddy chaos at the Yard…and when I come home I don't want to think about the world outside."

"Upstairs." Clea said firmly. "You'll need to get cleaned up before supper as it is. And since you wanted the back trimmed we might as well do that while we're thinking."

He nodded and thankfully hung the broom back up on its nail; Clea stifled a sneeze and he passed her a worried look.

-

"Hold still."

"I am!"

"Hold more still, please." Clea snipped a bit more at the base of his neck. "The girls are seeing to the fish and we'll all be eating soon. Will you be in a better mood by then?"

"Heavens I don't know." Geoffrey half-groaned. "If you knew how much it galled me to defend that woman…"

"As a matter of fact, I do." Clea bent over to kiss his forehead, upside-down. "She's not someone I enjoy seeing."

"I don't think _anyone_ enjoys seeing her…but she's the one in charge of her little ki—queendom—within London."

"I wonder why she was hired in the first place. I know we desperately need police because of the War, but…someone like Ms. Barker…"

"I'll tell you what happened. She walked into the office the day of the applications, and the clerks saw a six-foot woman with the muscles of a draft horse and the friendly face of a boulder, and decided she could take care of herself."

"That she does." Clea admitted wryly.

"And she passed the examination with perfect marks."

"She did?"

"You don't have to sound so surprised, Clea. You could have passed that examination with your eyes shut, standing on one foot." He tried to make a scorning sound, but the smile came out. "No. She's intelligent, and she's formidable. That's her problem. She's not accustomed to opposition."

"Still…harassing hard-working girls for working late hours…" Clea set the comb upon the sink with a sigh. "I fear she will notice our girls soon."

"Why couldn't a Bradstreet join the WPS?"

"Because the WPS was stared by campaigners and suffragists, and a Bradstreet would be too conservative." Clea rapped him on the head with the comb. "You know as well as I do…there's a power struggle in London, and that Nina Boyle wants these women to become so valuable they'll keep their posts after the War."

"They'll have to stop making enemies first." Geoffrey moaned. "Clea, I can't explain it to the girls without sounding like a daft old man. For the peace of both our minds, I want them to be more careful!"

Clea leaned behind the chair and rested her arms around him. Her cheek pressed against his greying hair. "It isn't fair." She whispered. "After so much fighting to save London, it's like the clock has turned back and you police are at odds with each other."

"And crime is rising." He reached up and held one of her small wrists inside his much-larger hand. "It is rising, Clea. That's one reason why things are a mess. They're afraid. The whole city is afraid…if a young copper can harass someone like Nick on the street…no one's actually safe from suspicion."

* * *

[1] Heat-blasted; dry

[2] In 1914 the policemen's' pistols were returned to storage.


	6. An Eye to the Heights

"Are you afraid of heights?"

Watson did not often ask this question—one has only a few such opportunities to ask such a question—assuming they are basic, normal and ordinary people with no extra-ordinary interests like Mt. Everest or lava tubes or granite escarpments. As a physician of some humble experience practicing in a city of millions he had only dealt with that particular phobia twenty times. With the exception of two genuine cases, it was all invariably rooted in the psyches of querulous patients who used their fear of heights as an excuse not to move out of the home they knew and into a strange neighborhood.

Dr. Crispin, so new into his Surgeon-Major stripes he glowed like a spring day, was starting to look a similar green about the chops. Watson had thought nothing of his invitation to come up to the roof now that the paint had—finally—dried—and was standing with his better foot upon the downslope and overlooking what parts of France their higher vantage could give.

"Heights?" The young man rubbed at the front of his coat self-consciously. "Oh, no, sir. Not literally. I always wondered why people were afraid of heights and falls as if they were the same thing. They aren't; not really."

Watson found himself smiling. For a meticulously medical man, the boy somehow found time to ask himself questions. "No, you are quite correct. They are not the same thing. Are you afraid of falling?"

"Not really, sir. I suppose I'll be all right until the last part of it…until then, you never know." With that beautiful philosophy, Crispin folded his arms about his chest and inspected his handiwork. "I hope this shows up."

"It is bright enough in the light of day." Watson was relieved at his fears assuaged. The roof matched the larger barn roof the staff had circumvented for storage of medical ambulances and those ever-present large, bulky things that aren't needed but rarely, and then are indispensable.

The two men were silent in the softly-rising air. Mist curled about their polished boots (Watson was still coming to grips at having an orderly again) and spiraled to the sky. In the distance the sounds of war were no more than a low rumble, lower even than the passing of a train would make.

"I suppose I was just thinking about those airships, sir. They've got me nervous. I used to go fish for things in the tidal pools on the coast…finding bait…now I think I know how those little fish felt to see a large shadow come over the world and disaster follow." To devalue his gloomy words, his mouth quirked up to one side. "They're the biggest things I've ever seen…I'm working on getting used to them."

"You aren't the only one. I admit they're beautiful…when they aren't being used to profane purposes." Watson smiled. "What did you think of the banquet?"

"It was very nice," Crispin said slowly. "I thought the French would be a little…remote. They seem to be good people."

"English shares Norman blood with France. When we remember it, all is well. When the French remember the Teutonic lines in England, they grow anxious. My advice is to be yourself—and you're doing an admirable job of it so far." Watson chuckled. "Shall we? I have some papers that require enthusiastic filing, and with the typewriter out of ink we shall either have to rummage or go back to the old-fashioned copying with shorthand."

"Before our after the rations, sir?"

"Before, I imagine…unless you saw the rations-carrier headed our way."

"I don't know if that's him or not." Crispin nodded at a plume of dust rising into the air. "But it drives like him right enough."

-

"There we are."

Crispin accepted the stack of thin sheets with satisfaction. They had been allowed enough time to sort out the documents for copying while the rations were delivered. Even the presence of a large beef upon their disposal could not—quite take away the cheer of their Army rations. In a way it was like getting a box from home.

"Shall I bring the rations, sirs?"

"We're not that old yet, youngster." Harker responded saucily, but his light blue eyes twinkled. "We can wait on ourselves."

Watson chuckled. "We'll meet you all in the dining-room."

Harker waited until they were alone in the drastically redecorated stables. "Dining-room, is it?" He smiled. "Is that what we call it?"

"It's a bit more official than saying, "We shall be dining in the living room." Watson self-consciously glanced upward.

"Shall we?" Harker asked. He rolled down his sleeves and removed his long apron; the one tiny bloodstain on his front was too much.

-

The phrase that an army travels on its stomach was truer than most people outside of the lines could ever understand. After a long, pointless day of grueling monotony in clay trenches and broken grasses, broken only by the terror of wounded soldiers and the horror of wounds, food was something to look forward to. It was something they talked about because it was removed from the other, usually miserable topics.

Watson chuckled to see—and hear—the men about him discuss the incoming rations. The usual supply route had been disrupted by the emergence of a skilled bomber who so far had the decency not to attack the plainly marked hospital area. It was hard enough on the men delivering the foodstuffs.

Soon, he was assured, the Line would be taken and they could move their wounded to the better cities and train lines. He hoped that soon truly _was_ soon. Before him the corpsmen were chattering about as they found their packets and a cup for the drinking-water. He was glad they could speak of such pleasant things as food and grumble about the trouble of boiling the water.

-

"What next for that old beef in the back?"

Watson was already looking to find the source of the hopeful voice, but Harker never blinked as he shrugged for room. "Should be ready on the morrow." He shrugged. "It will be a job."

"It has to be a job…if the owners put off butchering him this long." Watson was thinking it would be a lot of soup, too.

"Thing had the evil eye." Ralston volunteered. "I went out to feed him the other day and he tried to trample me."

"He'us all but blind, that's why."

"Tripe." Dr. Crispin announced. He was looking at a particularly horrible list of supplies.

Ralston misunderstood. "That's a lovely suggestion. We could all do with a good bit of tripe. Just the thing to flavour up a good bit of soup."

"Eh?" Crispin needed a moment to catch on.

Watson heroically refrained from laughing at a man who momentarily thought his comrade was suggesting they eat his worthless supply list when the cook rang the bell...Rations were being passed out.

-

Dr. Jones had been up all night tending to the few patients they had in the hopes they could be sent out to a safer area and make room for the next wave. He was eager to get to the contents of his daily ration—until he looked inside. His groan of dismay turned every head.

"What is it, lad?" Called the Lieutenant-Colonel.

"There's been some sort of joke, sir!" The Lieutenant held the offending packet straight up and at arms'-length. "This is a ration-tin for the Indian troops!"

The old duffer lit up like lights over Herne's Bay. "Let me see that, Jones!" He was already walking over through the milling mass of medical corpsmen. "Would you care to trade?"

"Wouldn't I!" Jones exclaimed.

Captain Bierce laughed at them both. "I'd say the Colonel has the better of you on the deal, Paul!"

"What am I supposed to do with half the stuff in that tin?" Jones wanted to know. With a dramatic flourish he closed his eyes. "And eagerly accepted of the Honourable Lieutenant Colonel John H. Watson, the delicious and nourishing and _positively_ _lovely_ contents of one British man's daily ration which are guaranteed to be as followed: One pound each of salted beef and flour (or biscuit)…four ounces of lovely bacon--all two stripes of it--three ounces of luscious government-approved cheese, the legal guarantee of an entire five-eighths of an ounce of tea (Orange pekoe no doubt), a quarter-cup of jam (bilberry again, I fear), three ounces of the finest sugars—oh, look, it's already lumped for us—a half-ounce of salt, one-thirty-six ounce of black pepper, one-twentieth ounce of mustard (where do they decide these amounts??), half a pound of fresh or two ounces dried vegetable (peas again! Lovely!)…and since 'tis dried again, there's a marvelous one-tenth of a gill of fresh lime juice to make up for it…half a gill of rum…and my word! We've gotten the week's tobacco a half-day early!"

"Here you are!" Dr. Watson was laughing almost too hard to stand up, but Jones had that effect on people. As a pacifist, he was also the only one who could get away with his disregard for the King's rank and procedure. "Accepted from the worthy Jones: A quarter-pound fresh meat—tinned chicken, I see—one-eighth pound of potato, one-third ounce of tea, a half of salt, one and a half pounds of atta, four ounces of dhall, two ounces of ghee, one-sixth of an ounce of chilies, garlic, and turmeric, one ounce of gur and a third-ounce of ginger!"

A slight silence befell the others. Not a few eyes looked at Jones reproachfully for getting the better of the deal out of not only one's superior officer, but also an old man. Jones quailed slightly, but tried to answer their expressions as bravely as he knew how.

"If you'd rather trade back, sir…"

"Not a bit of it." Watson rubbed his hands.

The smells that came from Watson's pan that evening were startling compared to the long weeks of beef, bread, and split pease. The others had cheerfully combined their rations into a large kettle of stew mixed with the plentiful tiny wild onions and a twist of parsley still lingering in the remnants of the farmwoman's herb bed. Proving an ability to provide above and beyond the call of duty, the orderlies had roasted dandelion-root for a pleasant if non-stimulating imitation coffee. No one pulling on the large urn seemed to know the difference in their day's brew, and until they asked, they weren't about to be told.

After borrowing a rind off someone's bacon stripe, Watson melted down every bit of the meagre fat and threw in several pinches of his spices, going heavy on the ginger. This, he explained, was the tarka of Indian cooking. At some mysterious moment he deemed it ready and threw in the cubed meat and potato. The gur was some sort of barely-refined sugar from palm trees, and he dropped it into his teacup with a nearly indecent relish.

"Somewhere on the Indian side of the troops, there's a very droopy Hindoo." Bierce commented over his bread. He was soaking it in a makeshift broth made up of his beef and mixed flour.

"It could be much worse." Watson forked up his meal. "Much, much worse. Before they brought me here, I was living on spare emergency packets from the Royal Navy!"

"What are _Navy rations_ doing over here?" Bierce wanted to know.

"You have me there. Frankly, I don't think the sailors will miss them." Watson shuddered like a doused cat. "I recognized those rations from some my friends brought back from the Boer war."

"Go on."

"I'm perfectly serious. And you don't know terrible until you've had a Bovril kit." Watson ignored the fact that people were straining their ears for something terrible to enjoy. "To begin with, these were the first such rations of their kind. You'd get a metal tube, or it would be waxed up fibreboard; if it was metal, you'd open it up with a little key that peeled the strip of metal off the soldered end like the tinned hams. The others had the caps glued in place! It was completely simplistic. On one end of the tube you had chocolate or cocoa, and to this day I have no idea what they did to make that chocolate resistant to temperatures, because it barely melted! You never knew which you were getting, and you couldn't trust what the label said. On the other side of the tube was the "meat" portion, if you can call it that."

"What would you call it?" Bierce grinned.

Old Harker emerged from the back with a large teapot. "Bovril Paste!" He announced grandly.

"Bovril Paste?" The corps glanced about each other, but no one knew what it could be.

"In other words, Johnson's Liquid beef."

"No!" Jones gaped. "They'd put men to war with _that_??"

"Look on the bright side," Watson and Harker traded grins. "One never need worry about the salt allowance!"

"Built to last." Harker said peacefully. "Built to last. I just ate some rations from the Boer War not a month ago."

"How was it?" Watson asked.

"Not bad for a twenty-year old plate. Not bad at all." Harker reminded Watson of Police Sergeant Murcher—too old and hardened to be bothered by much, and only growing more and more capable with experience. "The Boer War…now, those were the days. They'd give the men coffee grinders with their beans. Can't say as how we actually used them for _coffee_, gents." He pulled out a hand-rolled twist of tobacco and lit it with relish. "We'd grind up our mealie-meal instead…That stuff they sent us was barely ground at all, and we had to make it edible however we could…"

"Why bother grinding it?" Another old fellow wanted to know. "If you boiled it up and let it sit overnight, you could slice it up like a loaf of bread and fry it up for breakfast the next day. That would stick with you, let me tell you!"

Dr. Toht had been about to reply when the sound of the wireless came in from the next room. Still chewing he rose from the plank table (it had once been a door), and vanished. Everyone dove into a respectful hush while waiting for news, good or ill—and started chewing just a little bit faster in anticipation of the ill.

He emerged looking relieved. "We're getting a few pilots tomorrow evening, gents. Three men who need to recover from a fire in the hanger. Smoke inhalation; we're supposed to evaluate their ability to breathe and give the Brass our recommendation."

"Pilots." Bierce mused thoughtfully around a mouthful of parsley. "Talk about a brave lot. Jumping's as far as I'll part with the ground."

Watson cleared his throat with a cup of dandelion coffee. "How many of you gents got bilberry jam in your rations?" He asked the odd question.

"I think we all did, sir." His orderly ventured.

"All right. If they're pilots…" Watson leaned forward and cradled his cup in his hands. "This is strictly voluntary. For every man who wishes to divide half his bilberry portion to share with the pilots, I'll give them the same amount of another sort of jam. I've got a good bit of greengage and apple I'm willing to share."

"Not at all, sir. But why bilberry?"

"The RAF doles out bilberry jam to their pilots to increase their night vision." Watson explained. "Bilberry has the property of increasing the capillary action about the eyes, which increases the ability to focus. They need all the help they can get, lads.

"However," he added, "night vision is something we need too. Which is why I am asking for a voluntary donation, and also, offer no more than half."

-

"Well done."

Toht's smile was met with Watson's shrug. "We have a good batch of men." He leaned back in his chair. "All gave half; that should keep the pilots' vision up while they're here."

"You know what they ought to be doing," Dr. Watson snorts through his moustache as he sets down the paper. "Increasing the allotment of bilberry jam to the pilots."

"Get their night vision going," Dr. Toht agrees. "I know. It makes a difference."

"Perhaps we ought to be writing more letters." Major Hennessy set his billy against a piece of cork on the desk. "Not just to the Home Office."

"Surely all of us doctors here knows someone important," Harker mused. He grinned openly. "Present company excepted, of course…"

Seeds may be sown in strange ways. Dr. Watson wrote four copies of the same letter and sent it to different addresses. The last two were addressed to two specific brothers; one with a very important job in the Foreign Office, and the other brother with just an important post…only he pretended otherwise.


	7. War Efforts

Two neatly-uniformed men in midnight blue paused on their way out the front doors of the Home Office, and respectfully took a single step backwards, each. The commissionaire took their space and held the door open with a polite press of his fingertips to the edge of his tight-fitting hat. He was still nodding his acknowledgment when a large man in the peaked cap and frogged coat of the Bow Street Runner came up, and like the first two, restrained his pace to allow him passage.

It had been less than six months since the District Secretary's bereavement, and he was still accustoming himself to the art of functioning properly while mourning properly. It would be unthinkable to avoid the strict grieving protocols of his parents, but he had to admit were it not for his recently elevated income, the plumes, wreaths and special-printed cards would have been a great drain upon his limited finances.

The large Runner turned his broad shoulders and continued out the door. Something about his visage niggled at the Secretary's memory. Something half-baked and improperly set.

"Yes, sir?" The Commissionaire asked politely. The lobby was empty; the uniforms had left to wherever their duties sent them.

"I was thinking that man looked familiar."

"Mr. Roger Bradstreet of the Bow Street Runners, sir." The Commissionaire answered as if important men forgot the lesser ones on a daily basis due to the importance of other facts in their brains. "Recently promoted to sectional superintendent. He was here to personally deliver information about his district and potential gun-hoarders."

He had him now; a man slightly shrunk with the age that rimed his side-whiskers with white but still carried the _presence_ of a man three times larger than he truly was. "He has a son with the Medical Corps, does he not?"

"Yes, sir, and another is an engineer off the Shetlands, I believe. His is a universally bright family."

"That is good to know." The Secretary said truthfully. With a final shake of his head he clasped his hands behind his back and strode to his office, where he promptly removed himself from his street-stained cloak and hat. His stick he retained; he liked to let people know he was coming, and the tap-tap of the brass bottom against the pressed marble tile was a good way of doing so.

He traveled down the hall slowly, taking in how the fact of war had cast a dullness into the Homes Office…as if the entire building had gone into a brownout. The euphoria along the streets and inside the news was a different matter among those involved with the government levels. Everyone was trying their best to be careful, but stepping lightly is difficult when one does not know the lay of the land.

He walked to the very end of the hall where a small office sat, wreathed in polished plank. All the men here were encouraged to express their personal tastes within their office, as long as they remained subtle, and this one was tasteful indeed, with small framed images that one needed to squint to examine, and when they did, it was to see that rather than the usual hoary old images of anonymously dignified people, there were samples of calligraphy and parchments and isolated pieces of Egyptian art.

Martin Lestrade had thus neatly circumvented the usual game of showing off one's important and connected relations and allies; not only did he keep his office in his own style, but he also implied quite silently that he was not a man to trifle with. The small framed vellum on the wall behind his head was of a perfect calligrapher's circle. The secretary smiled every time he saw it.

The Home Office was not a place to inspire frivolity…possibly a lofty sense of patriotism here and there within the mouldings, carpentry and brassworks. But frivolity…no. Mr. Lestrade had felt the display of one's connexions in the world a frivolity.

The secretary studied the young man bent over his desk so assiduously. He was a handsome man, lean and spare if a shade taller than his father. The dark eyes were the same, growing ever darker with age and he kept his hair in a part to the left like most young men; when he lifted that gaze to take you in he was disconcerting without ever knowing it. Humour lurked within that sharp mind; lurked within those eyes too. It wasn't his fault that his features hid such things from the rest of the world so well.

Lestrade rose at that point, and eyes like bottomless blue pools recognized him. "Hello, sir." He rose as if that had been his intention all along.

Lestrade was good for disconcerting people that way. He thought before he spoke; spoke of what he knew, and was instantaneous in his apologies when he was wrong. It was all a very unusual thing, and there was no regret to having him among their company.

"Good-morning to you, Lestrade." The secretary took the already-out chair before the desk. He rested his cane under his hand and Lestrade pulled the cord to summon coffee; while the young man would far prefer the modern convenience of inter-building telephones for an order, he would settle for the non-electric method.

"I have been studying the matter of the lithographs over the weekend," he began. "I confess it is an unusual problem and not one in which we carry previous experience."

"The lithographs are proving difficult." Lestrade agreed. "What we need is for someone to work upon a blind study for us. Someone with a microscope and a good grasp of science."

"Whom do you recommend?"

"Not many; most have joined the War in some capacity and I hesitate to take their time and concentration." Martin touched his unused (and unneeded) glasses to his chin thoughtfully. "It ought to be someone who is not able to join the War Effort."

"What of your brother?"

Martin blinked. "I ought not to recommend my own brother for such a task." Without a scrap of emotional conveyance, he implied nepotism found no fertile ground in this office.

The secretary smiled. "He fits your description…and being your brother, he would trust your directions without asking too many questions, correct?"

For the first time, and slow smile spread over Martin Lestrade's face. "He does owe me a favour," he admitted. "And it would actually fit in with his work at the Museum."

"Oh? I am intrigued."

"The lithography plates come from the same strata as the _Archaeopteryx_. Nicholas possesses some fascination with the story."

"You have a very scientific family, Mr. Lestrade."

"Which comes from having more questions than the family, the church, and the neighbors can answer, I fear. We were the despair of our teachers both."

"Then we shall reap the benefits of the exasperations you have inflicted upon the world." The secretary glanced at the arriving tray of coffee. "Ah. Shall we discuss the particulars?"

*

It was one of the most beautiful birds Nicholas had ever seen.

His duty shift started nearly six hours from now; he knew he should be resting at home for those ten hours about to be laboured. But…crouched down under a spindly leafless shrub among bitter limp cold and dripping branches…he could only think of the slender grace wrapped in feathers before his eyes.

On a hunch and following the half-baked ramblings of the street-children, Nick had come to South London with a generous supply of almond blossoms.

It had been a sensible attack to his thinking. First of all, his parents had _never_ once celebrated Christmas without forcing cherry blossoms to bloom inside a vase of water several weeks before Christ's Birthday. Cherries were related to almonds; why not think of the two as similar? Giving flowers to a flower-eating bird would not constitute, he hoped, feeding of wild animals.

He had set clippings of winter-thinned twigs with sleeping buds inside water and—behold. Flowers had emerged, startled and sleepy. It had been a simple matter to take them out at this point and go outside in the crisp winds.

After an hour, Nick had been ready to give up, but two voices rang in his head; his father's gruff voice: _"you'll go as far as you think you're capable, Nick—but you won't know how far you can go until you fail."_ And his uncle Bartram: _"You just keep going. That's all you gotta do." _

The little green bird (surely no longer than a foot and a quarter) hopped from branch to branch in the battered old hawthorn hedge. It was keeping warm at night somewhere, but the winds ruffled against its tight green feathers and it was clearly hungry. He wondered how it had escaped, or was it truly feral? Parrots were not in the least bit native to England.

The soft pastels of the flower-buds compelled the parrot ever closer, even as Nick wondered if his spinal column would soon fall inside his shoes.

It was either a hen rose-ringed parakeet, or it an immature male. The light kept him from determining the colour of the head.

Just when Nicholas was about to admit defeat and rise up, the bird made a sudden dive and landed on the propped-up branch of flowers. It ate greedily, allowing him to see it was a male with a black neck-band and a pale rose nape.

Now Nicholas had to stay put because he didn't want to risk the bird losing its meal. The weather wasn't pleasant; it would get worse soon and he wanted to secure it before that happened.

The parakeet ate so quickly it was distended when it took flight. Nicholas knew it wouldn't go far; there was shelter in this park-bush. He grinned to himself and slowly rose up, brushing the park off his knees. It would be back. And so would he.

*

He came across his older brother at the news-stand, picking over a selection of the evening papers with a frown creasing his brow. Nick chuckled to himself. His brother looked like their father when younger. Right down to the no-nonsense politeness as he handed exact change to the vendor.

"Martin, you look tired."

Martin tugged at his glasses and polished them on his handkerchief before replying. The weight of his sleeplessness tugged at the skin below his eyes and he was certain he deserved his brother's concern. "It's been a long day," he answered. "The children were up half the night; Josephine's sister doesn't think it's my place to help."

"You mean, she wants to hog up the glory of taking care of them while you and the good wife sleeps." Nicholas was a shrewd man.

"Very like." Martin put his glasses back on. He took a deep breath.

"I don't know why you persist in those." Nick complained.

"It makes me look more bookish."

"And that is what you want?"

"Yes." Martin said firmly. "I have a problem at work and the Secretary wondered if you might have enough time to put up some assistance?"

"Me?" Nick was startled. "What do I know about paperwork?"

"It isn't paperwork, Nick. It's plating."

"Well I still don't understand."

Martin stopped and waved at a man pushing a tiny wooden cart with a tiny cook-stove no larger than his two hands. "Give me a moment to get something to eat first and I'll explain."

"Don't tell me you missed another meal." Nick scolded in brotherly annoyance with concern.

They settled against one of the battered wooden benches overlooking the Serpentine, a jug of tea between them, a paper sack of roasted English walnuts passed from hand to hand.

"It's about the stone plates." Martin said at last. "The Office doesn't have enough of the limestone slabs needed to finish up the lithography prints for the archives. We've been buying what stone we can, but this means we're getting used plates that need to be sanded down for our own uses…"

"Ah." Nick popped a nutmeat in his mouth. "Like sanding down a parchment. I know a bit about lithographic plates, you know."

"Good." Martin ate a moment more. "We need to verify the plates that we are receiving. We're paying for the genuine Austrian limestone slabs, but there's been some question as to how genuine the slabs are."

Nicholas thought about it, and mashed his face into a terrible expression. "Now how are you going to find out if a rock is genuine or not?"

"Well, we need help." Martin admitted as if he would lose a tooth with each word. "The Secretary wondered if you might be available for a bit of a night job."

"The Secretary?" Nicholas repeated. "Your Secretary?"

"He's not my Secretary." Martin answered sourly. "And as far as that goes, he's just the Departmental Secretary for Wartime Affairs for the Home Office."

"You said all that at one go?" Nick admired. "So what does that mean?"

"It means we don't bother a living soul unless we have something hard, concrete, and provable of something amiss…then we report it up."

"Ah. Sounds like one of Tad's cases." Nick said wisely. Martin abruptly flinched. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"The hell it is, Martin. You're smarter than me by half but you don't have to insult me."

Martin blew out his nose. "There's talk the older police will be asked to retire soon."

"That's barking." Nick said flatly. "How many more police are we supposed to lose?"

"The ones that are supposed to be too old to perform their duties." At Nick's stricken expression Martin flustered: "Look, it's just talk. Let's hope that's all it is. Everyone's talking about something."

The topic slammed shut with iron shutters and granite weights. The brothers ate in silence until the supply was nearly done.

"Would help to get an extra bit of money," Nick said at last. "I'm going to have to impress Ivy's parents if I'm to marry her."

"What you need to do is figure out a way to marry her without marrying her family."

"Even you aren't that smart, Martin."

"No, but I'll bet you our mamm is."

Nick sniggered rudely at that thought. "Right. What must I do to sign up for this job?"

*

Martin walked through Paddington Street slowly. The trains were slowing down with the restriction of goods across the island. It was strange to encounter long blocks of silence upon his childhood home.

Absorbed in his thoughts, he was nearly at his old home before he knew it. Something clinked at his feet, bounced, and rolled into the gutter. Martin blinked. It was a square, handmade nail.

"Hoy, there, Martin! Can you toss that back up?"

Heart in his throat, Martin looked up to find his father hanging precariously off the highest window normally used to allow light into the attic-space. One hand held a hammer; the other was empty. Martin couldn't see what in the world his father was hanging on to to prevent gravity's rule.

"You're needing one nail?" He called out, mouth hanging open between words.

"You look like that bloody great salamander you and your brother brought home." His father retorted. "It's the last bloody nail, and I don't fashing care to go all the way down the steps and into the street for one nail."

Martin collected himself. This was just one of those extra-ordinary days, he decided. With his best guess he threw the nail through the air and by a fluke, he aimed it correctly. His father snatched it out of the air and with three sharp BANGs a long strip of dark-tinted wood was resting like a short awning over the top of the window.

"Meet you at the door!"

Martin weakly waved at his vanished father's space. A few moments later the front door keyed open.

"Good to see you, lad. How's the family?"

"Still sick. Josephine asked me not to come home tonight. She's worried I'll get whatever the boys have."

His father blinked. "Is her sister helping her?"

"Yes." Martin said through his teeth.

Father grinned. "Let her then. She doesn't have nearly enough to do, your sister in law."

"She would if she could just get married." Martin answered in ill grace.

"So introduce her to Cousin Florence."

"That is NOT FUNNY!"

Father never turned a hair at his eldest child's explosion. "Was I laughing? Scrape your feet off, Martin."

"The last thing I want is for that woman to marry inside the family!" Martin managed to speak even though his indignation was choking the words right back down.

He had no sympathy, but there was an understanding gleam in his father's eyes as they made their way to the old kitchen. "Are you saying that Eugenia Donnasy isn't woman enough for this family?"

"Would you put out a house fire with a nor'easterner?"

"Well, no, I wouldn't. That's what Cheathams are for." Father washed his hands in the double-lined sink and wrung them dry before pulling out the icebox. "I hope you're hungry." He complained. "The butcher paid back what he owed us in beef tongue."

"I like beef tongue."

"Do you like it enough to eat six?"

"Oh." Martin blinked.

"They're oxen-tongue, actually. The market's about to be flooded to Lambeth on ox-meat, so just you watch it when you're doing the groceries for the week!" In a fettle, his father quick-stacked a tray of cold sandwiches. "Where's the mustard-pot?"

They found a warm nook by the chimney and Martin found his appetite. The tongue was as good as a cut of boiled steak and the black mustard was fresh and sharp. He ate three sandwiches before he stopped to think.

"That reminds me, your brother's coming back in the morning." Father said drolly. "What do you think…would four tongues be enough for him?"

Martin chewed and swallowed with a smile. "I found him a part-time job at the Home Office. Mayhap he can save up for that marriage."

A rude snicker was his answer. "Well, thank you for that…money-worries are over his head of late. He insists on paying his share of the building and I told him it wasn't necessary."

"You know Nick. I think he's trying to prove to himself that he can stand on his own because of Ivy's parents."

"And what a sterling lot they are."

"Something about his father's previous words came back to him. "What did you mean about ox flooding the market soon?" He wondered.

"The Crown's commissioned more dirigibles." His father shrugged. "They're making room."1

"Oh, Lord. If this keeps up, there won't be a single beef in England. They'll all be slaughtered up just for their upper intestines."

"They say they're working on a substitute lining," Father offered. "I don't know what that would be…silk isn't cheap either."

"I'd best hold on to the goldbeater skins I've got." Martin said gloomily. "Everything's going to go to the airships, aren't they?

"They need about 200,000 skins just to line one airship." Father shook his head. "I hear the Americans use over _three_ times that much for theirs."

"They must keep herds the size of Wessex!" Martin opined. "Just think of it. One beef can only produce two skins if there's no damage…you're right. We're going to be seeing a lot of beef."

His father only sighed. "I suppose we'll have to live with it." He admitted. "Not that I'm complaining. I just prefer the fish and chips."

Martin grinned. "We all must make our sacrifice for the war effort."

1 Airship gasbags were made of goldbeater skin—treated beef intestine. They were called goldbeater because the skins were used to sandwich a piece of gold, which was hammered into the thickness of a leaf and used for gilt veneer or calligraphy.


	8. Making Use

"Thank you much, Garland. We'll put it to good use."

Detective-Sergeant Cooper grinned, ducking his head to one side the way he did when he was feeling a bit awkward about something. Usually it was his baptismal name. He preferred his childhood nickname of 'Tadpole.' Lestrade had felt it ironic, as Cooper had outgrown the resemblance to anything small and fragile after his eighth year."Not at all, sir. This was going to turn into one of those white elephants you hear about in school."

Lestrade's schooling hadn't been at all sophisticated enough for Indian parallels; he'd learned by the blab method and thank God it had took in his brain. It was a mark of the world's improvement that the son of his first, closest friend could take his better learning for granted.

The two men remained standing just inside the shadow of the too-small street. Like many "streets" in London, it had outlived the usefulness of its narrow width and probably wasn't on half the maps in London. It was so narrow it was doing a fair job of holding the weather off their heads.

About the policemen a thin, sour rain dripped from rooftop to gutter, trickling new black slime down the grey-black bricks. A drop of rain struck the lid of the large tin pail here and there, sharp as a pebble.

"What's the news from the river, lad?"

Cooper shook his head and shrugged at the same time. "Oh, they're scared. Scared to travel much and they huddle close as they can to the banks at night. I can't blame them a bit. There've been robberies against the narrowboats from the land but they're banding up and giving some as good as they get." The off-duty sergeant smoked briefly from beneath his hat. "I wouldn't try to get the bile up on the riverfolk. They're old, most of 'em, but they fight like the Irish."

Lestrade chuckled knowingly. "Well I know it. But is it safe enough for you and yours over there?"

Cooper shrugged again, a grown man awkward in the presence of a man old enough to be his father. "We all stick together," he said at last. "No sense dividing up, but Mum wants us to. She says if an airship comes up, there's…there's less chance of the whole f-family dying."

Lestrade swallowed hard. "Give your mum our regards, would you?" He said at last.

"I will, sir. I will at that."

Lestrade pulled the end of his smoke out of his mouth and blew out, wording out what he would say in his head first. "And to your brother and his brood. What's it now, three?"

"Yes, sir. Three and strong."

"You enjoy being an uncle?" At the red-faced nod Lestrade laughed and gave the man an avuncular pat. "Best leave you to it. Come and see us sometime. We miss you coming around."

Cooper turned so red with his awkwardness he resembled one of Clea's purple violas. He stammered something about family obligations this time of year, nodded and made a quick escape the very second the rain showed the hope of lessening. Lestrade laughed to himself; it would have been cruel to show his amusement before the other man, but there was something heart-liftingly amusing at the sight of the bigger man huddled up as if against the raindrops, his blue scarf pulled tightly about his collar all the way up to his nose. So busy was he with dodging the raindrops that he was halfway through a large puddle of muddy water before he even knew it.

"Your mum's going to half kill you when you get home." Lestrade said aloud to the curtain of icy rain.

-

"What is it you have there, Geoffrey?" Clea looked up from her sink of dishes and peered into the half-gloom. A single lovelock hung over her forehead with sweat; it was only now starting to showing the true pewter of age.

"Weekend supper I hope." Geoffrey set down the pail with a clank. "The Coopers bought their half-hog early, and one family backed out; had to scarper to the shingle on a family bit…so they were stuck with their share."

"What was their share?" Clea dried her hands neatly upon the flour-sack apron as she stepped closer. Geoffrey smiled as he prized the lid off. "Goodness!" She exclaimed. The head of a good-sized pig looked back at her without its eyes. "They didn't want it?"

"Not a bit of it." Geoffrey promised. "No room for storage. I paid them the at-cost for it…What do you say to a plate of hog pudding?"

"Now that is a perfect idea." Clea smiled. "One less thing to worry about, eh?"

Geoffrey straightened with a grunt. "Sink clear?"

"Only just. Ready for you. I'll get the large pot."

The two worked with the absent-minded ease of long practice and mental harmony. While she put the heavy pot on the stove and set the gas (the old burning stove was still in the side for gasless emergencies), he donned a heavy canvas butcher's apron and set the head into the sink. A rinse over with salted water and a small knife of his wife's set the stage for preparation. As he cleaned the head for cooking she poured pans of more salted water into the heavy stock-pot.

"Are we out of buckwheat?"

"Not just yet," Clea thought to look. "There's a bit of chestnut flour we can use if we run short."

"So long as there's an onion in the house." Geoffrey laughed under his breath. "Who was it that said cooking was an easy problem as long as there's an onion?"

"And a potato…and a carrot…and a bit of celery…" Clea added to the old joke.

"And salt…and pepper…"

"And butter…or grease…"

"Parsley!"

They started laughing at the same time. Geoffrey rinsed the head (minus skin and ear) one last time and carried it to the warming stock-pot. Clea added up a whole onion, yellow and strong as sulphur. Geoffrey saw her hesitate with a glance to the sink.

"What is it?"

"The childer will all be late tonight…" She said slowly, and with a smile. "What say you to a treat?"

"You're not going to make stock?" Geoffrey exaggerated his surprise.

"And you think I can live with stock every day of my life? Off with you. On second thought, just sit down at the table and slice up the bread."

"Yes, mum." Geoffrey found the plates and put the weight off his feet with a sigh. The correctional shoe helped his back a great deal but even at the end of a long day…well, any shoe starts to pinch after fourteen hours.

Clea pulled out the ears and dropped them in the top of the stockpot so she could find them later, and selected a lump of buttery fat off the offal pile from Geoffrey's cleaning. It went into a hot skillet with a sizzle; before Geoffrey had finished setting out the tinware she had thin-sliced potatoes into the bottom with a quick dash of French thyme. The lid on the stockpot rattled; the water was approaching the boil.

"I'll never quite get used to how fast the water heats." Geoffrey complained.

"That's because you were raised over hearth cooking." Clea chuckled.

"_Over_ it, my decent foot, dear. I was raised _in_ the hearth. The inglenook."

"Yes, and you survived despite the smoking." Clea teased. She tossed potatoes. "What about something to go with the pan?"

"You needn't twist my arm…" Geoffrey rose and found one of the family's better attempts at a dark ale. "I should bring a bottle of this over to Tadpole as a thank you." Finances had been tight in the Lestrade household, but then, it was tight for everyone, even the shrewd investors like Gregson or the inheritors like Bradstreet. Universally, they all gave what they could, and accepted gifts without protests.

Clea pulled the pan of sizzling paper-thin potatoes to the table and quickly tossed out the portions. They sat with the practiced ease of those who rarely have time to themselves. "A shame Tadpole couldn't come over himself. Was he busy?"

Her husband passed a droll look over the table and from around a forkful of his early tea. "Busy enough to avoid our daughter."

Clea did not quite sigh, nor did she roll her eyes to the sky…at least, she held back the urge for an entire ten seconds. "You'd think we created a race of Titans, the way he acts…"

Geoffrey swallowed his smile around his drink. "Cheathams and Lestrades aren't the tamest lot to ever trot down the High Street."

"Right you are, but nor are the Coopers!"

"No…but I can see his side of things, Clea." Geoffrey's expression struggled with bitterness. "When Pacer was killed I tried to do what I could to help out with his widow and those little ones. They didn't have any other family…and it wasn't long before the old gossips started the rumors that I was taking advantage of a poor lonely widow."

"Yes, I know that." Clea said gently. "There will always be a Mrs. Fitzhugh across the street, dear." And credulous fools like her brother Andrew. Thank God Andrew hadn't believed the rumors for long, but it had nearly been disastrous…

"Well, because of those forked tongues I had to drop out of their lives. The boys needed _someone_ but it couldn't be me. Eventually it got so the other men on the beat took over, but…" He shook his head once, tight-lipped. "He's probably afraid that if he's seen too close to our girl, it will be said he's trying to edge up."

"He's a grown man and _well old enough_ to have a family of his own. If he's shy around Margaret he needs to face up to it." Clea's lips thinned in womanly disapproval. "Our girl's young but she's no fool, she. Plenty of oil in tha' lamp!"

"Unlike Jenny's beau." Geoffrey added sourly. "Young Roger favours his grandfather in more ways than one."

Clea struggled to hide her amusement behind her napkin but simply gave up. "Oh, me. You shouldn't imply your best friend is a dimwit, dear."

"You're right. I should just come out and say it." Geoffrey picked up his drink. "Just as I've been doing for years." They toasted each other with the sides of their glass bottles.

The pot roiled merrily, beginning the process of separating the pig's meat from the bone. Clea's special recipe of bay leaf and black peppercorn and sweetened garlic added to the homey fragrance. Clea didn't admit it, not just yet, but she was glad not to decide the menu for the weekend. A part of her was tired of her continual efforts to bring something filling and interesting to the table when the prices of food fluctuated as madly as the coastline.

This was the first moment they'd had together as just man and wife in weeks. The growing thunder of war was a low rumble like a train…as it approached it steadily drowned out all other noises. She missed the other, the _real_ sounds of London: children played as loudly as ever on the streets but there was a shallow, shrill quality to their play that her ear discerned: even the youngest ones were picking up the mixture of exultation and fear.

So many young men running merrily to war as if to a picnic…or something that would be settled quickly with only a "little" loss of life, as if there ever was such a thing.

Clea had never thought of herself as old…not until this particular point in her life where she realised there were _so many_ young people who had no memory of the thousands of homeless veterans on the streets, begging for food and clothing. They had populated Trafalgar Square with the rest of the starving, marked from the usual horror of gaunt cheeks and staring eyes by their missing limbs or eyes; and that most of them still wore their service medals for the world to see.

_It can't happen again_, she told herself on a daily basis. _They'll take care of their men this time…won't they? There will be something…there aren't as many poor people are there?_

But the doubts rustled about her head. Her sons were out of the war proper, but that didn't mean they were truly safe from it. Spies were supposed to be in England, quietly renewing their family ties with Germany and reporting back information that would scald them all. How easy would it be for a knife or someone's poison to reach a sensitive target? Martin worked for the Home Office. Nicholas was being approached…

She stared at her plate, feeling her meal threaten to burn to ash in her stomach. Before her Geoffrey was setting his ale down; he knew what she was thinking because he was thinking the same thing. Possibly more…he swam in this convoluted world where crimes were committed as easily as the brain justified its action. He knew things…possibilities of crime she could never imagine and didn't want to imagine.

They could banter back and forth about their children and their youthful silliness, but it all felt like they were in someone's graveyard, laughing.

Geoffrey reached over the table and rested his heavier hand over hers. The fork pressed into the old plank.

"Let's finish and head upstairs," he offered. "Ellen will be here in an hour or so to start cleaning. We have a little time to get some rest before tonight."

Clea smiled. "Going to test the house tonight, are we?"

"Every inch of it." Geoffrey vowed. "If an airship sees _this_ square it won't be because of those who live here!"

His frankness reduced in the weight of the kitchen. Warmth and light hovered in these corners, but it was frail. He touched her greying lovelock with a little smile.

"Well, let's go get our rest." Clea found her smile easier with practice. "Lord knows we'll be up half the night."

"Too true." He murmured wearily. "But what I said yesterday…"

"I believe you." She pressed his hand between her own. "I promise." Clea held his dark gaze. "If it looks like things will be too harsh I promise you on my father's very grave that I will head to Bartram's—that is, Bartram's country house. Even the Germans can't think of a need to torpedo his precious tulips."

"_And_ any of the young ones you can sweep along your way." Geoffrey added grimly. "I don't care if they belong to us or not! If London is going to be under siege from these pickled pirates, I don't want to think of any child in this city that missed a chance to get to the country."

"You aren't the only one." Clea answered. "Hazel's already arranged for hers to head to the family crofts. If the Germans want to bomb the Shetlands, Orkneys, Faeroes, or anyplace on the north of Scotland, they'll have to work hard to get there."

"From your mouth to the ears of God."

Clea felt icewater in her veins. Never in their long marriage had her husband made such a vow in her presence.

She had heard those particular words once before, from a man who had once sat at this very table. He had worn a beard, but in all other respects he had been the mirror of her husband.

If Geoffrey Lestrade was going to start acting like Triaged Potier, things were more serious than she ever imagined.

She wondered what he was planning.


	9. MCMXIV

MCMXIV

**Wednesday, December 23****rd****, 1914:**

"1914 is on its end and it is a GOOD THING!"

Lestrade finished talking to himself—nothing so dull as being your only audience--and slammed the window down in his office with a muffled curse; one last puff of chill air wafted across his forearms with what Clea called _Eau d'Noel_, that unmistakable tint of burning evergreen boughs mixed with the usual London soot…and he shivered inside his wool sleeves. The stacks were going full-throttle to keep up with the holiday spirit (well, what there was of it) and it made him nervous.

Industry showed up at night in the form of millions of glowing lights threading into revealing outlines. He didn't mind the permanent overcast of London now. It would hide some things from German eyes.

Outside of his office the Yard continued on. He listened to the hustle and bustle sadly, missing the part of his life when he had been one of those hustlers and bustlers. This promotion was not something he'd planned for; no one in their right mind would have posted him up in his younger days.

Of course, that was back when everyone thought France had nothing better to do than to pick another war…in the space of only nine years that had rather changed!

Lestrade scowled at his token wall-photograph of the King in private rebellion. _If anyone in your Cabinet had thought to ask me, Your Majesty, I would have told you to watch out for the members of your own family. Of course, I was just speaking from experience. Personal experience._

He pitied their Monarch--God help him—and God help the state of things where one could pity the man on the throne! Mycroft Holmes was the only ruler on any throne in England the little detective felt was safe from the machinations of his family. Then again, if there was anyone more likely to let sleeping rulers lie, it would be Sherlock Holmes. _Know the man half your blessed lifetime, and he'll still manage to surprise you…_

Papers signed; the silly reporter had collected his statement about the possibility of Christmas Riots…and Gregson, Bradstreet, Youghal, Morton and whatsisname—Athelney Jones (the Third)—had dropped off their holiday wishes in a growing stack of paper envelopes. Lestrade remembered their days of penury when Martin and Nicholas had drafted the family's wishes for them on ink and paper…

In a growing ill-humor he stamped back to his too-large desk and returned to the reports of the past three months. He knew he was reviewing the year prematurely, but the compulsion to go over his little calendar was too much. He'd studied it throughout the course of the day in his office (his new office; still felt wrong and too large). A small paragraph on the front page of the _Times_ caught his eye. The name was familiar.

Oh, dear. Mary Richardson was back at work.

Lestrade groaned under his breath, and wondered if this was what it felt like to be tied to an ant-hill and covered in treacle.

Mary Richardson. Things had truly shown the mad-streak for 1914 back on the 10th of March, when that suffragette took a damned _meat chopper_ into the National Gallery and sliced up the Rokeby Venus. Her confounded reasoning was such that Lestrade had memorized her confused babble in a vain effort to understand:

_"I have tried to destroy the picture of the most beautiful woman in mythological history as a protest against the Government for destroying Mrs Pankhurst__1__, who is the most beautiful character in modern history. Justice is an element of beauty as much as colour and outline on canvas. Mrs Pankhurst seeks to procure justice for womanhood, and for this she is being slowly murdered by a Government of Iscariot politicians. If there is an outcry against my deed, let every one remember that such an outcry is an hypocrisy so long as they allow the destruction of Mrs Pankhurst and other beautiful living women, and that until the public cease to countenance human destruction the stones cast against me for the destruction of this picture are each an evidence against them of artistic as well as moral and political humbug and hypocrisy."_

No doubt Diego Velázquez would have been _flattered_ that she thought his painting the most beautiful of women, but to destroy something he had created with his own hands hardly impressed anyone for their maturity and stability. That was the WSPU2 for you; throw a fit, break someone's dishes (or more like as not, burn it to the ground), but overall, show a scene and expect someone to _respect_ you for it…who ever justified the damage of public property in a bid to get attention??

Clea shared his contempt for Mrs. Pankhurst and her violent minions, not the least because they felt justified in attacking policemen. Youghal had a son-in-law who had lost a month of work through their mischief back in '11—work he could hardly spare with his ailing children in the spring! Pankhurst's own daughters were estranged over disagreements on women's rights. One of them had even gone into self-exile for Australia and was advocating peace while the rest of her blood-kin were pressing young men to go to war. Another one, if the CID was correct, was advocating peace too. That made him feel better. People who wanted peace abroad rarely tried to fire-bomb people at home.

_At least they hadn't set fire to the painting! Fire in a place like the gallery would have been a ticket for mass panic. _

The suffragists were intent on seeing to "The German Peril," but Lestrade had an uneasy resonance within his spinal column whenever the subject came up. They were a rough lot; rougher than some of the slums he'd worked, but no one ever accused the women of being politically ignorant. They were currently pushing their amazing energies to encouraging young men to join the War Effort whilst simultaneously pressuring women to work in factories and munitions plants.

He had a feeling deep within his bones that it was all a most coordinated and smart effort to enforce women into the fore; if they made themselves indispensable…so indispensable they could not easily be replaced…then what better time than War Time? War was when everyone, man, woman, child and even the neighbor's dog was expected to band together. He'd heard as much from the Uniformed Women who were patrolling London. Too many of them expected to be of such value the Office wouldn't say no to keeping them on after the War was over.

Young people made that mistake. They made it a great deal.

Hiring a veteran back to his _original_ post was cheaper (and nobler) for the government than keeping on his replacement and filling out his unemployment dole.

_And not to mention that there have __**always**__ been a high number of veterans in the police force. Nothing else approaches the camaraderie or what they were trained to do when they were on the Royal Shilling._ Lestrade couldn't see too many of these men returning home (at least, those that returned alive and whole in body), and trading their uniform for factory slops.

March hadn't been a good month; no. In like a lion with the death of Lord Minto,3 and ended like a whole pack of the big cats with the suffragists…The suffragists hadn't helped. Why, oh why couldn't they be more like Katharine Routledge and less like Queen Bees? Lestrade felt Mrs. Routledge far more important: one of England's first female archaeologists had headed off to Easter Island on a mapping expedition his sons would have begged to join. If women wanted _equality_ they should work for it the way Mrs. Routledge had. Nothing made a man more contemptuous than someone, _anyone_ who came up to him and said, "I will MAKE you respect me!"

Desperate for some sort of optimistic perspective, he skimmed through more of the year: **April**. Blissfully boring. The first colour film had been aired with half the people refusing to go because of the risqué title—though Lestrade had surely seen much worse than "_The World, the Flesh, and the Devil_." _Pygmalion's_ opening had gone down better, but he felt the film and the theatre had both been somewhat similar in their attack upon society. Well, that was what the arts were for…

**May.** 9th Duke of Argyll died. The Princess Louise had been understandably upset even though her marriage was something of an unqualified disaster with the Duke's proclivities to men…adding insult to injury, he hadn't cared if his paramours were married or not. Like most of the other policemen who breathed air, Lestrade was dead-convinced the Duke's little "friend" Frank Shackleton had been behind the theft of the Irish Crown Jewels. But evidence had been suppressed (as if that never happened when a Royal was involved), no doubt to hide the Duke's tastes. Lestrade also didn't think it coincidence that Shackleton's brother Earnest had hurriedly trotted off to some flag-waving and half-baked expedition to cross Antarctica_…(good riddance and have your fun with the Trans-Atlantic-whatever-Expedition…)_

The Duke had been the first commoner to marry into the Royals in almost 400 years…_with an achievement record like _that_, it'll be another 400 years before they try that again!_ Lestrade caved in to personal pressure and plucked out his small pipe. Oh, well. At least the Irish Home Rule was passed. Nothing like Asquith's bewildering use of the English language to unify both parties with confusion on what they were voting for…Lestrade himself had difficulty following the bill and he had sharpened his teeth on conflicting riot reports…so far as he could understand it, the end result of the bill was to postpone another civil war in Ireland_. Amen. Too bad for the good intentions…as soon as it looked like War would erupt Ireland forgot all about fighting each other…_

**June**. The further one got along in the year, the more compelling the need for tobacco. Lestrade felt depression slip and slide, seeking purchase on his shoulders with its weight as he packed the pipe and puffed himself into a state of calm. Depressing enough that his favourite actor of all time, Walter Brandon Thomas, had died. Otherwise _everything_ that had happened in June had been involved with the future war. The Kiel Canal had been deepened by the Kaiser and then re-opened. Who did Germany think they were fooling? The King, apparently! The Kaiser got to see—inspect, really—the new dreadnought named after His Majesty…for the Kiel Regatta. Thank God they'd started up the Royal Naval Air Service…that was something the Huns hadn't had a hand in!

**July**. Another death. Joseph Chamberlain. Colourful, controversial, and yet good-hearted. England was smaller for his absence. Ireland amended the Bill for Ireland. Some sanity had trickled into the world for a brief time…

He hated nearly every day of July. The Archduke Franz Ferdinand was buried; the Kaiser went on his planned cruise as if nothing was wrong—or, pretending nothing was wrong. It was up to each man to decide. While the world shivered to bits in the threat of massive loss of life, everyone with an important name attached to the Huns were gallivanting off on vacation as if all was set and lovely with the grand scheme of things…

He couldn't bear to look at all the notes he'd written, day to day. He flipped to the back but not before seeing a quote the newspapers had pulled out of the Emperor Franz Joseph: _**"Now we can no longer hold back. It will be a terrible war."**_

The last day of the month had been the worst. Germany had chosen that date for _Kriegsgefahr Zustand: __pre-mobilisation for war._

**August**. All for naught with August. Charles Davis Lucas had died. What a moral blow. The world's first Victoria Cross recipient, someone to respect and look up to…dead of old age with the full honors as Rear Admiral. Again, the mood of the month had been scored by a significant death in the first week. War. Germany asks Belgium for free passage through its lands to France. Belgium refuses. Germany invades Belgium. Belgium can't resist. England scolds Germany. Germany ignores England. England declares war on Germany. End of story—or at least the first chapter. And as if Germany still thought England would hold back after that point, the Kaiser had clearly forgotten that his cousin was slow to rouse, like trying to rock a boulder down a slope. Once you got that boulder going, all you could do was to get out of its way.

And the name of the boulder for the King: _HMS Birmingham_.

Fair Isle. _U-boat 15_ spotted between the Shetlands and Orkneys; fog on the sea, English warship _HMS Birmingham_ tries to shoot the U-boat, fails, and solves the problem of attacking by simply ramming it full speed, slicing it in twain like a sausage and killing all hands on board.

Lestrade still remembered the cold sensation below his ribs to read the newsprint; the Germans had tried to dive to avoid attack. They had been stranded with bad engines and the fog had made everything a horror of uncertainty. First submarine blood for Germany. Lestrade had paid token cheer to the news.

_Germany's going to head for the air anyway. No matter how often we blast them out of the water. They're headed up while we stay on the ground like mice. _

Battle of Mons. Battle of Heligoland. German losses in the water both times; both growing harder and harder to hear the rumours outside the papers.

He'd let his pipe die; he re-lit it with an angry shake. Damn. Damn. Damn.

**September**. London Agreement, trapping England and France with Russia into an oath not to seek a separate peace with the Kaiser without the other two present. Both good and bad about that agreement.

Bloodshed in the Marne.

Dr. Watson was out there.

So were a few of Lestrade's young Constables.

500,000 killed. And it was considered an English victory. They were still working on the death-tallies. Would any of his men come back? His chest shrank at the thought; they weren't his sons but he was supposed to be their father-figure wrapt within duty. How did their own fathers feel about it?

Bloodshed in the Aisne. British and French against the Germans. Victory? Indecisive. 12,000 casualties for the British.

_I don't care what they think. English blood is worth more than this! They've had to start digging ditches to live in—fighting like moles and rats instead of above the ground because not a single commander on either side will give way one bloody inch! _

Irish Home Rule passed—finally, good news. Irish Home Rule suspended until quittance of war—bad news. Just the latest bit of bad news.

**October**. Bloodshed in the Ypres.

**November**. Same Ypres, same armies bleeding…just more of it. Planes were being used to wire communications back and forth.

_Finally. Use of air power._

Battle of Coronel. First British Naval defeat.

_It won't fool them. It won't fool these Germans. They'll move in from the air no matter what we do…no matter how convinced we are they have the upper._

**November Fifth**.

Remember, remember, the Fifth of November…when Britain declared war on the Ottoman Empire for giving German Naval ships safe harbour. Churchill practically stole the Turks' own two ships out of the British naval yards at the start of the war, so the gift of two fleeing German ships had been downright mystical for the opportunists.

Lestrade didn't like Churchill. He had reasons longer than his forearms, mostly because of his refusal to let a pilot's widow survive off his death-trophy, but he had a feeling that the man wouldn't have hesitated to seize Turkey's ships even had he known the outcome.

_Ships again. We're ship-strong; it's what we are and it's what we do best…but…_

More deaths of November. Britain's last commander in chief of the Forces dies. Like Campbell…the end of an era making way for a new and strange one. Old "Bobs" Roberts had died the way he lived: in service visiting the troops in France before being struck down by pneumonia. He had outlived his own sons; painful thought. Thanks in part to his amazing life, his eldest daughter inherited his Earldom and Viscountcy_…another woman rising in the world, accepting the responsibility of being unusual and possibly alone…doing it without brickbats and firebombs…_

Lestrade stared listlessly at the last month of the year.

**December**.

It had, like the others, started off on the wrong foot.

Britain again pounded the Germans, this time at the Falkland Islands. One day later (and to Lestrade's relief), the first Royal Navy aircraft carrier was commissioned.

_Hurry_. He thought. _Hurry. Get to the air_. _Get to the air before _**they**_ do._

-

He closed up and left at the end of his shift. The Yard would know how to reach him---and where—if something else happened. He devoutly hoped nothing would…not for just the evening. Hun sympathizers, attacking women, women police barely less polite, and spies needed to take a rest once in a while surely!

Hawkers tried to sell papers on the street with false hopes: "Soldiers may be home soon!" But anyone who wasted the pence found hollow statements, puffed up with the helium of hope. Lighter than air it all dissipated into nothing.

Lestrade collected his post in ill humour but stifled the thoughts that wanted to come out and thanked the snail-brain on the other side of the counter. He shuffled through a stack of holiday greetings—shuffling a deck of cards, like—and caught upon a familiar (yet unexpected) name looking back at him.

He paused before the doorway where it was guaranteed the coldest; people swirled back and forth, sweeping freezing draughts about his trousers below the protection of his long coat. No; he wasn't imagining things…how strange to see this…

"Walk-ER!" A boy shouted at the top of his lungs, jarring him out of his head. He set his mouth. A knot of children raced off, trading insults that were rather sophisticated. He came to his senses and stuffed the entire packet into the special pocket on his left side.

"Hoi! There you are!"

Lestrade spun on his left foot with a smile already forming over his face. "And there you are!" He exclaimed. "I thought you'd be at the '_Keg_ by now."

"Held up." Bradstreet puffed slightly as he made it to the edge of the kerb. "More work from the other side…I tell you, man. It's been nothing but trouble since they allowed the River Police motorized boats!"

"They can get into so much trouble in _four_ years?" Lestrade smiled skeptically.

"When you've got all these young fools in charge…" Bradstreet growled. "Horrible, man. Just horrible."

"Tell me all about it over a pint," Lestrade promised. "I've got an hour to ourselves before heading home."

Bradstreet was aging in most uneven planes. His face was barely marked but the lines that did exist were crater-deep upon his face, craggy beneath his thick moustaches. When he smiled, like now, he looked solemn and wise and merry all at once. "Ready for Christmas, are we?" He asked hopefully.

"I don't know. Is it still going on the day after tomorrow?"

Bradstreet laughed and slapped the smaller man on the shoulder. "Last I checked. Are you still ready to have us over for Boxing Day?"

"That depends, I suppose." Lestrade felt some of his anger at the world melt like the first snowflakes against his coat. Side by side the two men turned in the direction of their preferred tavern.

"Cheer up." Bradstreet admonished. "Haven't you heard the good news?"

"What good news?" Lestrade asked doubtfully.

"Australians and New-Zealanders got to Cairo today. Things are about to get unpleasant for the Huns!"

Lestrade sighed. He wanted to catch his friend's mood—Roger Bradstreet's moods could be as infectious as a day in the plague-ward. But he realised he was tired and the chill of the day was seeping into his bones. "Thank you for telling me," he said at last. By then the letters were burning a hole in his pocket with the itch to be read, and Roger was pulling the door open for his first-entrance to their place of refuge. "I was thinking the papers were a little quiet today."

"Well, close as it is to Christmas, I can only hope it stays that way." Bradstreet patted him on the back gently. "Though I can't say I hold out for much hope of peace with my namesake and your daughter."

"Oh, dear. What are they up to now?"

"Nothing…for a wonder. Just that they're trying to sign me un'Hazel up to some sort of book subscription service."

"Don't fall for it. Jenny already tried that with us!" Lestrade paused in their back room and pulled out his fistful from the post. "Do you still have that fancy fountain-pen, Roger?"

"Right here…never without it." Bradstreet blinked. "Why, are you writing your cards at the last minute?"

"No, I need to copy some addresses down…"

-

**Marne, France:**

"It's a truce."

Watson stared at the stranger just in fresh from the outside and the courier-posts, but the young man stood firm.

"Truly, sir. There's a truce going on at Wipers—"

"_Ypres_, lad." Watson said wearily.

"_Ypres_; sorry, sir. But…" The boy swallowed hard. For the first time, Watson noted and recognized the small emblem of a Chaplain on his lapel. "They started out today by singing carols…both sides."

Watson nodded at him to continue.

"Then they were singing together, and then the flags went up. A truce was declared so both sides could bury their dead…" The young man—chaplain—could not keep a smile off his face. "Then they stayed on the field, sir. They stayed and they had joint services for the fallen. A few of them even traded gifts."

Watson felt tears sting his eyes. "They did?" He whispered.

"They did, sir." The boy's eyes were stinging too. He blinked quickly in the fitful light of the lamp-oil.

"Thank you, Chaplain…?"

"Root. Chaplain Root, sir."

"Chaplain…thank you."

"I'm going to write to my parents." The boy grinned, and left before he could be reprimanded. Watson stood where he was in the midnight hall, feeling the tread of the boy's boots thrum against the soles of his own feet.

He was left alone in the dark of the sleeping clinic. Not even Cpl Townsend moaned in his opiates. They were all asleep.

_Silent Night…Holy Night…_

Watson turned and faced his small room. He felt lighter than air. He would write to his wife. He would write to his children…he would write to everyone. Everyone needed to know.

_Perhaps this war will end sooner that we feared…_

-

**London, December 24:**

Clea Lestrade was worn out from chasing after grandchildren and the creation of the pudding. In a moment of grace she put the pudding in the care of her daughters.

"You just let me know if anything happens," she scolded as she hung her apron on the wall.

"It's not even ten in the morning, Mamm." Margaret smiled from ear to ear, a handsome woman who had the sort of handsomeness women are rarely blessed with. Housing a mousy spirit, she would have been awkward and dull. Being a fiery woman she was vivid and beautiful even if her little sister got the credit for the looks. "We'll be fine, Mamm. Well, we shall be as soon as Jenny crawls out of the basement…"

"I heard you, Maggie!" Jenny's voice floated up the dusty stairwell.

"I'll stay out of it!" Clea promised with a laugh. "Don't bring up any spiders, Jenny." She shut the door to seal the heat in the kitchen and trudged back up the stairs. Geoffrey was already stretched out for his usual off-shift nap; she hated that he'd been forced to take on an extra turn of duty for Mr. Gregson, but she did understand that laryngitis respected no one's rank or importance.

He was sound asleep and barely stirred when she curled next to his side under the coverlets. She stopped to smile at him once before falling right to sleep. They had Christmas Eve together...that and half of the holiday to themselves before he went to work again...

The telephone's shrill gradually pierced Clea's brain, but she was so tired and the blankets felt so warm and soothing she could not bring herself to rouse. That came in degrees, and she opened her eyes bit by bit as the rings shut and Geoffrey's mellow voice queried into the line.

It was the silence that woke her the rest of the way. She opened her eyes and sat up, blinking. Geoffrey was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head down and shoulders bowed. She hadn't heard him hang the phone up or felt him return.

"Geoffrey?"

"That was Morty." Grief thickened his voice and coloured it with heavy pain.

"Morty?" Clea knew most of his friends and co-workers. Morty worked the track-line at Dover. "What is it?"

"It's the Germans." His voice caught on something; barbed wire inside his throat. "They just dropped a bomb on Dover."

* * *

1 Leader of the WSPU

2 Women's Social and Political Union, a militant suffragist league.

3 March 1


	10. MCMXV: Sherlock Holmes

MCMXV

January 1, 1915:

**Western Front: **French take a wood near Champagne's Mesnil-les-Hurlus.

**Eastern Front; Asiatic Theatre:** Russians advance on the Uzsok Pass and the Bukovina, while Russian Armenia saw heavy fighting.

**Naval and Overseas Operations: **_HMS_ _Formidable_ sunk off Lyme Regis by U-24.

Loss of Life: 35 Officers; 512 men out of 780. Captain Loxley went down with his ship accompanied by his dog.

Of that terrible day, there were only two notes of which Sherlock Holmes made later note in his copious journals of the Great War:

The first was that Bruce, Captain Loxley's dog, had been found washed ashore and was given burials as a war dog in Abbotsbury Gardens. The second was the announcement of the Military Cross (first mentioned all the way back in the previous year's mid-December).

He remembered the first because the matter of a dog's burial as a war companion would appeal to Watson. The good fellow's natural egalitarianism made no distinction between the efforts of man and his best friend. The second incident was the fervent hope that Watson (his closest friend) would have no need to ever face the prospect of a Military Cross.

The New Year had announced itself, so to speak, on a flat note. He celebrated it appropriately—alone in his house with a small glass against the chill while the rising winds whistled. He had not expected much in the way of the post, but the day had fallen upon a Friday and he was somewhat taken aback at the size of the bound-up packets hand-delivered to his doorstep.

Lestrade's return card among the letters and gossip had surprised him for its expediency; the man must be finding time on his hands. Holmes made a brief game of analysis, but his concentration was called to other shores and he went no further than the initial, shallow observations: that Lestrade was still unhappy with his promotion, his wife's health was still in question, and of course the little matter of having two marriageable daughters in the household while his youngest son approached that allegedly happy state. The signs of wartime paranoia were almost unworthy of note; _everyone_ appeared to possess it in some degree—even those who had cheerfully shelved their plans of having their loved ones home by next Christmas…

He tucked his mail away and made tea. There were three newspapers, and they needed to be gleaned over for anything useful.

**January 2:**

**Eastern Front:** Russian success on the Bzura and Ravka; hard, one might say desperate fighting near Gorlitse; Russian progress near the Uzsok and Rostoka Passes. Over at the Asiatic-Egyptian Theatre the Battle of Sarikamish was _still_ going on.

**Naval and Overseas Operations:** _HMSs. Fox _and_ Goliath_ bombard Dar-es-Salaam.

On Friday the 1st he took the post.

On Saturday the 2nd he sat and finished reading out the mail.

On the third day, the day of rest, he lounged in his battered-up library table and wrote his responses. A note to Mycroft with the appropriately unemotional acknowledgement of his holiday gift (Mycroft operated on one mistaken belief, which was that his brother could not function without half a gallon of coffee a day). The bag of green coffee beans would keep for a future occasion…

It was easier to think of coffee beans than the news by wire and by newspapers…he thought of Watson on the Western Front. His French friends (And admittedly Holmes' extended kinsmen) had failed their attack on Boureuilles, but Alsace was a better story…at least they'd carried the height.

He stopped in his letter to Mycroft and reluctantly allowed his hungry eye to return to the evening print. The Russians now occupied Suczava—or Bukovina; however one called it. The Austrians still kept their occupancy of Ada Tsiganlia (Holmes had actually been forced to find that island on a map. It was somewhere near Belgrade and the _reason_ for the capture was still ephemeral to his reason).

_My Dear Watson…how are you? Do you know the fighting at Sarikamish and Transcauc is as heavy as they believe it can get? Do you have time, between your bandaging of wounds and surgical prowress, to learn Germany has arrested Cardinal Mercier for his Letter against their deportation of native Belgians to Germany?_

_Mycroft believes Germany will not incarcerate him for long; he is too visible. Yet it is a poor thing when but one man stands up and speaks against Germany's use of Belgian slave labour…_

…_Where are you now, Watson? Rumour has it the war is shifting to St. Georges…_

His mind composed one letter while his hand composed the other; two communications to two very different men.

_I have read your little book, Watson. I agree it is a modern fable couched for children…the appearance of Pan can hardly be less anomalous. But I sense you have left another clue beneath the pages. You are inordinately fond of your little chalk-streams and trout. Do you claim your origins upon the banks of the River Pangbourne? I say Pangbourne because to call it the River Pang is nothing more than a back-formation (did you think I never paid heed to the literary struggles and gasps for victory among your etymological circles?)…yes, Pang is a lexeme, but a poorer one than its parent-word…_

…_but I digress. I have, I believe, found your country of origin in this small piece of Berkshire. Your post was only my first clue. Even I am aware that one's military location is based upon where one recruits! In all respects you have betrayed yourself through the years with the smallest of traces; a man raised within Edinburgh would hardly think to compare a woman's freckles to a plover's egg, nor would he be so comfortable with the sweeps of Sir Henry's lonely lands. _

_You have inadvertently marked certain portions of the book, my dear fellow; pages are thinned and stamped with many frequent re-readings. They coincide with the imagery of the river, and of punting in particular. Hardly co-incidence… _

-

On January the 4th, he posted his letters (deciding at the last minute that Lestrade's holiday card had been only a courteous return of his own, and therefore immune to the tiresome obligation of eternal letter-trading).

By the time he finished walking to the small post office, the French were on their advance to St. Georges (the local newspaper was at war with the others in calling it Flanders), and Alsace was finally captured after half a week intense fighting (or resisting, considering where the allegiances were on that troublesome borderland where in peacetime, the Germans and French blended and made their own unique world).

Sherlock Holmes submitted his arm-load of neatly printed letters and small packages. Again he was surprised at the amount of mail coming his way. His membership in a music-collection club, a sheet-music club, a travel log (thanks to his previous identity as Sigerson), and not a few subscriptions to book clubs, periodicals, foreign newspapers and the _National Geographic Magazine_ ensured he would never be lonely within his brain; still, these were posts of a personal slant.

His eyebrows lifted at a most familiar name. Why would Mrs. Watson feel the urge to send him a holiday greeting?

Perhaps the woman was merely apprehensive with the potential fate of her husband. Holmes existed strictly on a day-to-day approach of the situation, and never allowed himself to dwell in the morass of what-ifs. Watson had passed on his last will and testament to him, and he would ensure the words followed to the letter if he must.

Holmes placed the plain, unadorned envelope in a safe place well within the stack. He liked Watson's wife, and rather admired her for being so skilled in her ability to circumnavigate the pitfalls of society by building up a mysterious world of much speculation and very few admitted facts. A woman of means must think creatively in order to survive without a male protector; before her marriage she had done that ably. Watson was no shirker in this skill himself; the two had found much common ground and he was still bewildered that it had taken two reasonably intelligent yet openly romantic human beings such a ridiculously long time to stop dancing about the subject and deal with matrimony. The romantics were usually the first to leap headlong to the altar, were they not?

Well, it was not the first time Watson had left him puzzled! Not only was the fair sex not _his_ department, he tried to avoid any mention of the related departments as well!

He returned to the soothing world of his innermost thoughts as he placed his steps back across the mileage to home. Here and there an automobile rattled past, and he absently refused their offers to drive him home.

Russian victories at Sarikamish and Ardahan; Turkish army corps destroyed at the former.

Asquith's position was growing narrow; his Liberal views were good for the manufacturer, but the inherent flaws in supporting private industry for the War Efforts were growing unfeasible. Recruitment was still steady and impressive—not that Holmes had doubted the Englishman would refuse to rise to the challenge when it threatened his own soil. More than 225,000 young men had signed up within the first month of the War's decree. He no longer knew the latest total; it was still high even though human effort was far brighter than the duller and less-equipped matters of military organisation.

The wind was rising slowly, smelling of the ocean by turns before a swirl of the yellow fog returned. His eyes were still sharp, but he could not see the sulphurous mists until the sun passed through a rare break in the cloud-cover. Sea-birds took up their flights and sailed past with a complaining air; he resisted anthromorphising the animal kingdom, but seagulls were self-absorbed creatures and he often watched their activity for clues on the morrow's weather.

The morrow would Twelfth Night. Tuesday.

He huddled slightly within the confines of his large coat, feeling how a sudden burst of wind pushed salt air against his throat. He shuddered slightly. Watson was doubtless out in much worse; he would never complain unless he felt the discomfort was due to someone's negligence. And then what?

Inside he set the fire under the tea and arranged a tray of sandwiches. A hot meal was best saved for the worst of the day. Against the tightly-battened windows the trimmed twigs off his fruit trees disentangled and tossed against the shutters. He would have to re-gather them all up and return them to the pile. The gardener had joined the War; his two sons as well. Holmes had never claimed to understand women, but he could not imagine the selfishness of _all three_ of Mrs. Dorrit's menfolk, that they would all risk their lives with the added risk of leaving her alone in the world.

_Too common a story. My gardener wishes to make amends for missing the Second Boer War and so he joins for the sake of his pride. His oldest joins because he is within age and does not want to be seen as cowardly; the youngest joins to prove he is a man to both. And they leave her alone with their platitudes and her knitting and make promises to destiny when it is completely out of their hands. _

With something approaching his old temper, Holmes pulled the cold spread out of his icebox and sought out some of the cold-weather greens as a garnish. It was not the first time he had been aware of the male callousness to the one woman of the house; Holmes respected his gardener as a man who knew his work but little else.

He ate quietly, listening to one of his newer records—an assortment of Mozart pieces with a glass armonica. The ethereal instrument added to his mood, supporting the romantic notion that sounds could be emotionally charged when it was all just the brain struggling with the audial physics. It finished with a slow, descending note and he rose upon it, snuffed out the solitary candle by the table, and went to bed by the firelight.

-

Tuesday, January 5 (Twelfth Night):

**Western Front:** French blow up a half-mile of German trenches in the Argonne.

**Naval and Overseas Operations**: Union forces occupy Schuit Drift on the Orange River.

A man must rely on the post for an outside lens to the world. For this reason, Sherlock Holmes paid the postal employees well for their time, paid extra for hand-deliveries, and made a point to add a gratuity to any and all holidays that came along (Christmas of course gaining the most attention).

Twelfth Night was nigh; he remembered it as a particularly _good_ day to avoid whilst in London; if Mrs. Hudson or Watson hadn't their own plans for his celebration, there was simply no genius by which he could avoid the effusive holiday terrors of the Yard, too. Christmas Day itself wasn't as stressful…

He thought of London in these moments—and with better reason than most. In the winter months the yellow London fog spread as far as four miles from the city itself, and when storms threatened, one could catch a warning whiff with the nose. He had it now; more snow was in his personal forecast, and he was hardly surprised. Even in this modern era, London was marked in its atmosphere by the metallic tang of coal smoke and the underlying dust of horse dung. It was a good reason to walk down to the edge of the waters and stare at the cool waves of the Channel as they flowed between the larger seas. It was a frozen expedition, but he felt better for doing it and walked slowly back up the winding path to his house, thinking of his bees the whole time. Several times a single snowflake fluttered down. He was not surprised.

Since August of the previous year, the weather had been wet with only brief forays into a more pleasant, drier field. The snows had collected and shown surprising presence. Each succeeding month was cooler than the previous; Sherlock had weighed his memory, doubted it in the light of his infamous three year absence, and finally wrote to Brother Mycroft.

Mycroft had not _directly_ scolded him for disturbing his usual schedule, but he had found the time to point out (acerbically) that with thousands of ships churning up the cold oceans, and countless depth-charges pulling cold water to the surface and stirring up the currents, he was _astonished_ his younger brother was so inobservant as to ask him, pray tell, was there a link between the stirred-up cold water of the ocean and the frosty winter they were now enjoying.

In other words: _"Sherlock the conclusion is so painfully obvious **I** can only conclude you are spending too much time with those bees."__1_

Mycroft's final Parthian shot had been in the nature of an ominous foreshadow:

"_I shall be collected a coal budget next year, Brother. I suggest you think ahead."_

Sherlock shuddered at the thought of his manically neat brother contemplating warmth from anything but clean and quiet gas, but if Mycroft was willing to revert to coal, there was reason and he doubted it had a thing to do with being a patriot supporting the endless coal seams of Great Britain, and more to do with the fact that oil and gas was about to be hard-pressed. Mycroft was too lazy not to have a reason for any of his actions…and he usually had three or four of them.

In the meantime, his younger brother dealt with life by keeping his country cottage thick and firm against the elements. As the mid-winter winds whistled about his ears and attempted to shove the books off the walls, he thought of his patient bees and fretted. They needed at least one calm day for their ablutions. They were clean insects, preferring to die before they fouled their colony; he liked their supreme attention to hygiene and neatness.

The bathing pool was rimed with ice. It rested away from the salt sea at low tide. Watson often took to this pool in his search for fishing-bait or some mollusk he felt would be "the very thing" on the dining-table on his rare visits. Holmes never saw this part of the beach without remembering McPherson's death beneath the Lion's Mane, and their initial quest of futility in searching the caves and ledges for clues. Under the January winds the pool was bereft and sad. The science teacher had been a discreet, decent man and to Holmes' knowledge the anniversary of his death was faithfully observed by his former rival in love, Murdoch and their mutual object of attention, Maud Bellamy (now Maud Murdoch nee' Bellamy).

Eight years had passed, and most of the students shared by the two teachers were now in the trenches. Because of this, Headmaster Stackhurst sometimes came to his house without prior warning and troubled him for his company at tea. They two would chat of nothing in particular mixed with world events, and at the end, the Headmaster would nerve up his courage, pull out a folded clutch of paper, and smooth it out, adjusting his bifocals as he did so. Aloud he read the recent casualty list, and Holmes would listen in silence as the tea steamed between their hands, bearing silent witness to any—if there were any—known names.

The Murdochs were united in a single grief; he and Stackhurst were united by many.

Holmes entered through the back-kitchen door, which allowed him the time to clean his soles from grit and shell. Chafing his cheeks against the warmth he removed his walking-gloves and hat while hanging his coat closer to the fire for warmth. In his comfortable little parlour the usual scene had taken place: The ape's skull (uneven from a deformity while alive) had fallen off the shelf again; a flour-paste restored the dome to its original smooth shape and it was with satisfaction he dusted his hands free and sought his re-warmed coat. The post would be by soon and he may as well examine the walk for any patches of ice.

He was surprised to open the inner door to find a folded-over sheet of paper wedged neatly within the grasp of the storm-door and the outer frame.

With a gleam of interest in his grey eyes, the aging detective plucked the paper from its prison and smoothed it before his face.

The image shocked his attention for the barest moment; he recognised "his" Chichester Cathedral, or rather what the artist had left of it. Before his eyes the inking was of disaster and flame; a bomb burst a hole through the roof; flames licked out the windows and smoke created an apocalyptic gloom upon the world. It was a Sussex in tatters. Over it all was the greater horror: two large German planes and two zeppelins dropped death from their cargoes.

As if the picture wasn't a thousand words of description and explanation, there was type below:

CHICHESTER CATHEDRAL as it would be under GERMAN BOMBARDMENT

Holmes squinted to read the block-print letters beneath the headline:

SAVE SUSSEX FROM THIS.

THE MIGHTY GERMAN FORCES

ARE ALMOST AS NEAR SUSSEX

AS LONDON IS TO BRIGHTON

**JOIN** THE **SOUTHDOWNS**

_(Kitchener's Army)_

AND SHIELD SUSSEX FROM WHAT

THE GERMANS ARE DOING TO

BELGIUM AND FRANCE

Sherlock Holmes sighed.

No one could hear him; no one, save poor Watson, would have believed it of him. Three years of effort; three of an exile that he had no choice in, and in many ways far worse than that of his first "death" and he was facing the return of the very demons he had striven to defeat.

In moments like this Altamont's voice returned, whispering in his ear.

"_Do you think you failed to make a difference? You tricked Germany as well as you did the fools that would cripple England." _

He studied the paper without truly seeing it. Someone had walked up the path in his absence, knocked, found him absent and placed his propaganda between the doors and went on his way. A mindless cog in the machine of War.

His lips tightened. If England would not hurry up, this paper would move across the line between alarmist and prophetic. He did not want that to happen.

"The wind is here, Your Majesty." He said aloud and quite softly to his house. "When will you finally do what you must?"

_______

1 WWI and WWII were unusually cold, snowy, and full of Arctic weather, but ONLY during the active years of both wars. The constant churning of cold water from the depths of the ocean (thanks to military activity) has been deemed the leading factor.


	11. The Man Who Never Grew Up

It was a plague of rain.

"I feel as though we are under siege," Jenny Lestrade complained. She had waited impatiently for her sopping-wet father to stomp to the door-step, and was pulling the coat off before he was finished with the buckles. "Why are we getting all the rain? It isn't fair!"

"I don't think we're getting _all_ of it, _bihan_." He stopped to shudder and took the hand-towel to dry his face and hands. Against his usual routine he had used the front entrance; spots of wet had leaked through his coat's formidable armour and stained his cuffs and shoulders. A steady line of wet tracked from the bottom of his trouser-cuffs to the knee where it met the coat-hem. "Where's the—ah, thank you." He took the clothes-brush and took yesterday's coat off the tree where it had peacefully slow-dried over the course of the night in the cool airs of the hallway. Jenny put the new victim in its place; a steady _plink_-_plink_ of recycled rain sifted through worsted wool to fall into the tin bucket beneath. Jenny eyed the colour of the water mistrustfully.

"How did it go?" She asked.

"Bought and paid for." Her father sniffed and held up the offending object that had sent him out in the weather on his one day off. A new passport looked back at Jenny; she studied the strangeness of it all. Her father's sober photograph looked back at her, a tiny image against the little book of paper and proof of his citizenry. Now that it was illegal to have a passport without a photograph, the Yard was embracing the law philosophically, for it would help identify people…living, dead, or criminal.

Her father did not look especially happy nor sad to be before a camera; he had that look that said he was doing his duty and that was that.

"Where was I? Oh…" He pulled a small wooden arm down from its hinge against the coat-tree and carefully spread yesterday's coat over it. With his usual grim attention to detail he brushed the mud off the wool, bit by bit. "Go look at the newspapers. Plymouth is ready to float into the sea."

"I would enjoy looking at the papers," Jenny sighed tartly. "But they're a sodden mess by the time they get here."

"Be glad we're not closer to the East Side. The sewers are backing up again."

Jenny grumbled. "Even this building is running out of things to clean."

"It is?" He was honestly surprised. "What about the new lodgers?"

"You mean the brothers that stay in the basement and never come out?"

"That's the ones, yes." He ignored her youthful opinions—they were as sharp as new cheese, honestly, and reminded him of his wife in their early years of marriage.

"They've scoured their rooms to the last inch." Jenny shrugged. "I suppose that's sailors for you. And I imagine they don't mind having only two six-inch windows for light…it reminds them of being in a ship's hold."

The mud was finally off the coat and into the dustbin. He remembered when the dustman would take everything they had…sifting the dust for anything useful. The mud would have been separated and taken to a mortar-mixer along with the rest.

"Well, you haven't missed much news, dear. The Royal Navy sent a German ship off packing off the coast of Chile…we lost the Dardanelles…But there's some rather bad news that I hope Dr. Watson doesn't get for a good long time."

"Oh?"

"Yes. George Llewellyn-Davies died."

Jenny dropped her eyes to the ground. "Flanders?"

"It was."

The two didn't say much for a while…they concentrated on getting the coats in proper shape for tomorrow.

"We need to finish carving up the rooms," he said at last.

Jenny's usual spirits were becalmed. She nodded and did not say anything. "Do you need some help?"

He appeared to be debating with her, within his mind, but she saw him put it aside. He smiled instead. "We need some butcher's paper and a pencil," he said at last. "Make it two."

"Just the two of us?" Jenny wondered. Not that she minded working with her father on one of their projects; it was just that there was usually someone around to help.

"Your mamm will be at the Chapel until sundown—well, I hope she leaves before that—your brothers are working with limestone slabs and strange seashells, and your sister is off with your cousins doing their best to get in trouble with knitting needles and beaus." He shot his cuffs out with a sigh of relief. "I'll get a dry Jersey on and meet you in the back room. The light ought to be a bit better there."

Jenny caught on; she felt herself smile. "This is about Nick and Ivy, isn't it?"

"Don't be impertinent, youngster." But he smiled back as they ascended the steps.

-

"…so if we let them have the old study room…it ought to be good enough for the two of 'em…"

Jenny watched her father slowly mark pencil over the butcher's paper. In a way she felt as though they were doing something illicit and exciting; deciding how the spare rooms would be let to lodgers without anyone else to offer their opinion. She knew it needed to be done; the Harpers had left and they had rented the attic-rooms; the Stover brothers were well enough in the basement but they were shipping out with the Royal Navy at the end of June. Jenny hardly saw them anyway; they made their pin-money by working in seedy bars as crowd control. The family who had been able to produce the most income in the way of rent, the Pluckroses, had been almost rudely standoffish but their rooms now hung empty. A son had fallen in Ypres and they would move deeper inland to rejoin their old family ties. Jenny didn't really know where that was; Pluckrose wasn't a common name by half, but her father had appeared to know everything about them and even put up with their odd ways.

The Collins Building was still solid and strong, which was a comfort to the girl. She had grown up here, as her brothers and sister. She didn't want to think of something happening to it. But it took money to keep it all up; once every three months their father received something in the post by a solicitor and he would look a little happier; it was a banking-statement of sorts, but she didn't know why he would trust _this_ particular bank when he'd made of point of pulling out every pence to their name at the offset of the war and putting it in hiding places across the island.

But living off an endowment didn't cover the small things from day to day, and his wages as a superintendent were only a little better than they had been. They needed lodgers, and she was looking forward to company again. The building was hollow-sounding when it wasn't filled with people.

"Tad," she began slowly as drew squares to represent the vegetable-beds in the back, "Is Nick going to pay rent when he gets married?"

"He says he is." Her father answered tartly. "I keep telling him I'd rather he save his money and help out with the repairs. We've been going around it for a while now. I'll settle for his paying half-rent…He's making decent wages now, but things aren't going to last. They're talking of rationing food now and you can hardly get some tools on the market. I take that as a sign of things coming."

Jenny nodded. "Roger says the same."

"My friend Roger, or your friend Roger?"

"Tad!" Jenny protested, and far too loudly, with a face red beyond belief.

"I'm sorry, girl."

"No, you aren't!" Jenny protested, caught between laughing and being angry at her father for teasing. "You're horrid!"

"Just thought I'd lighten up the mood, girl…you seemed to need it."

"Because my Roger's leaving." Jenny supplied heavily.

"Yes."

She studied the paper without seeing it. "He asked if I wanted to marry before he left. I said no."

The pencil fell to the desk; the garden-squares smeared with lead.

-

**May, 1915**

The tiny newspaper clipping had shocked him by fluttering to his grimy lap after opening the letter. He caught it up hastily, and peered in the softening evening light of May. His wife's beautiful handwriting looked back at him, neat and delicate as etching on a wedding ring. The letters looped smoothly around the four margins of the tiny clipping, and he wondered what paper had wasted so much paper in making a margin on four sides. An extravagant one, perhaps?

Or one that was growing tired of the censors and was making its own silent protest. Sgt. Brill had said one of his back-home papers had published a newspaper with large, empty squares where articles and images ought to be; in the headlines a poignant taunt:

**"Due to lack of approved information from the War Office, the news content has been reduced by 30%."**

Brill liked radical publications.

Dr. Watson—when he was this covered with mud he simply ignored his rank—squinted to read the neat type. It was an announcement long overdue: The Valley of Fear had been published—all the way back in February—and a checque for the amount was processed. She did hope he would think of himself once in a while, but as she doubted he allowed himself the time, she had taken the liberty of sending a parcel his way…and it ought to be there, she was assured, several days after his reading this one.

Several days…

The parcel was probably still back at the infirmary, collecting bloody dust with everything else. Personal posts were months overdue here and there, some mail delayed while the rest going through swifter channels dubbed by Providence.

Dust was settling on his eyes even now.

The doctor leaned back against the bowel of the trench—but tired as he was, he did it by inches. Even if a part of the trench looked clean, free of corpses or metals, there was no telling. Too many times his spine had discovered a hard little brass button from either army, or a protruding bone still wrapped in its uniform…once the spike off a German helmet…Watson had not been able to bring himself to see if the rest of the German was on the other side of the helmet. It was all a war internment; all what happened when large, demonic shells erupted craters of earth and then returned everything blown to bits back to the ground. Trenches were made and re-made daily; there was nothing to do about it, and even grieving was not a problem.

Watson didn't know a single one of his men who would regret their bodies adding to the trench if it meant but one of their comrades would be spared later. Grim and corpse-garlanded like a Norse Hell, there had once been a hope that there was some safety in being hidden.

Then in the very first month of the war, when August was still hot, the French started using a lachrymatory weapon; 26 mm grenades of ethyl bromoacetate—tear gas, they called it—in a hope of using effective but non-mortal ways of winning battles.

At the time, and miles away from where he was now, Watson had sat at his borrowed desk in his borrowed farm-camp and hoped it would help matters.

He had not known it was about to mark the end of war as he or anyone else had known it.

Two months later, the Germans had fired fragmentation shells against the French in Neuve Chapelle and irritant gas had been mixed within.

This time, something made Watson feel very sick inside---enough that he wrote directly to one of his old friends at the Base and asked for details. Not to worry, Tom had assured him…The Hague Treaty only covered gases of an asphyxiating or poisonous nature.

But Watson had not been completely eased. Something was happening, and the Treaty was fifteen years old—old enough in war terms to be dangerously obsolete.

This January had seen the beginning of what Watson had wanted desperately to be unthinkable.

The Germans attacked the Russians with White Cross—a xylyl bromide, the Office had assured him. Easy to manufacture, alas, but no different from the stuff the French had used back in August.

Watson stopped listening—and reading—after that. The assurance had completely overlooked the most important point:

The Russians were being attacked with the vile stuff at the River Rakwa, and tear gas, no matter how seemingly innocuous, would have meant a disaster and rout of panicking men without the protection of masks or even wet cloths—the river had been frozen solid; at least the cold had protected the Russians, for the tear gas had solidified in the icy temperatures, minimizing the damage.

But the Germans would learn from their mistakes. They had the same brains as anyone else. They would learn; and for every mistake or victory they made…their enemies would learn too…learn to start their own attempts.

Tear gas in a crowd might not violate the Treaty, but Watson knew they had hoped to create mass death by panic and confusion. Confused men were easy targets. Rabbits herded against the fence to be clubbed to death. No…it didn't violate the Treaty…but the Treaty would be walked around until it was finally an embarrassment.

Watson was soon assured of his pessimism. All the while he had been anguishing over tear gas, the Germans had been aiming chlorine gas at his own men. "This is a horrible weapon," A German officer had said, reporting that 140 English officers had been killed but making no mention of the many more English soldiers who had followed their officers in death.

In early April, the Germans were ready to attack and they did it north of Ypres. What kept a complete bloodbath had been the fact that the Germans were as frightened of the gas as the French. The Canadians had held firm against the few attacking Germans, though it had been a display of sheer courage on their part. Afterward the German government claimed the Treaty had not been violated because it was not a chemical shelling, but gas projecting.

Obeying the letter of the Treaty, if not the spirit, which had been to prevent cruel and inhumane death, the war had turned worse, as swiftly as an eclipse could take the sun.

Ypres was seeing the future dead now. Men scalded in the eyes, the throat, the nose, the lungs; the throat and man died choking on the caustic death. But it wasn't enough.

The Germans were preparing to attack again, and it would be very soon.

He knew they would attack with gas.

-

"Here you are, sir!"

Watson's dreams had been red-tinged and clogged with mist. He staggered upright from a terrible lost place in his mind and wiped at his face and eyes. He felt old.

"Mail, sir." A large square packet in brown paper was placed almost reverently in his lap. For a moment Watson stared at it stupidly. It remained what it was.

"Shall I read it for you, sir?" Asked the young man—Chaplain Root. A small gold cross hung neatly at his breast-pocket, and he looked far, far too young.

"Read it for me, my good fellow." Watson blinked his way through a higher state of conscious as he reached for the hair-comb upon his folding field-table. A mirror no larger than a promise was his only consultant for the regular grooming. He struggled to see in the lightening grey of dawn.

"Yes, sir. There's a note affixed to the top…" Root cleared his throat. "P.S. to you, John, and regret to be the bearer of bad news. I just heard myself that over in the trenches we lost Kings Royal Rifles, Second Lieutenant—"

The brittle comb split in Watson's large hand.

"Sir?" Root breathed.

Watson was holding his eyes closed. "Allow me," he said heavily. "Kings Royal Rifles, Second Lieutenant George Llewellyn-Davies…"

"Killed in Flanders, sir." The young chaplain repeated. "A gunshot wound in the head. It doesn't say if they could recover his body."

Watson flinched. They _knew_ what the trenches were like—they were on their way to them! Often shells went off too close and the percussion created killing earthslides and smothering clouds of atomised soil. Watson had been at the trenches north; he remained haunted by the sight of a man's foot protruding out of the earth embankment that shielded his living brothers. The foot had been broken and hung awkwardly like a branch, still clad in its trousers and boot. No one had been able to retrieve the man, and they could only wait in cynical expectation of a second shell to release the earth and allow him an official burial with honours.

About him the other medical men were sitting in exhausted patience. The news had fluttered up, then down the lines of damp, wet, plank-lined trench and steaming dank earth. The name was familiar to them; familiar to all of them. To any man who had once been a boy refusing to grow up.

"I hope we're never invaded," Private Johns said softly. "My mother lives for the little theatres and the performances in the parks. She's been to Wyndham Theatre three times…I promised I'd take her again when I came back." If he came back. He was trying to talk about something to show he had heard the news and understood…and yet it was too painful to approach.

They were hungry, he realised. Hungry for a world beyond the War, for society and bright lights and something as remarkable as the sight of a woman smoking in public or to know someone who knew someone famous. Someone who could be a celebrity…

In this world, anyone who knew a celebrity could be a celebrity.

"I knew him." Watson said at last, and every hollow eye sharpened eagerly in his direction. "He was a fine soul."

"What was he like, sir?" Asked a new Cpl…Watson wasn't certain of his name yet.

"He was the nephew of Gerald du Maurier," he heard himself saying. "Has anyone seen him perform?" A show of hands went up with breathtaking speed. "A very poised, polished man and polite…he always scolded the young men for being too eager to woo on stage." Even now, Watson had to smile at fond memories. "I watched every performance I could afford, even when it shamed my cheque-book…did you know, sometimes I lied and told my friends I was spending the money on the horses?" That collected silent smiles; no laughter in the trenches. "He was a cricketer; very popular and a fine actor…and he was good to our Lieutenant." His smile drooped. "I should send him my condolences…and that of Mr. Barrie. They were close, but I didn't see much of Barrie's work…"

"We are sorry, sir." Chaplain Root said softly.

"He said something once."

But Watson fell silent.

The trenches grew silent as well; with dawn would come the sounds of distant fire, and their continued attempts to reach the wounded though ambulance, horse, mule, or human back. It would happen soon.

And they'd be lucky to save one-fraction of their men. They knew it. It was just one of the odd things about the human brain that they weren't thinking of any of that just then, just the death of a young man who inspired the Boy Who Would Not Grow Up. Now the boy had grown to a man—just barely a man—and would never grow older.

"He said…" Watson felt his voice break as his throat swelled. The others looked upon him expectantly. "One day, I'm told, Barrie was telling the boys that all the babies who died went to Neverland. And Young George, upon hearing this…he exclaimed…" Watson stopped for a moment and cleared his throat. "He said that…to die would be an awfully big adventure."

No one else felt like saying much for the rest of the day.


	12. 12: Trench Dreams

"Bloody hell in a Hammersmith."

Watson had fallen asleep with his back propped up against a wall comprised of reeking grey clay and bits of cloth and bone and metal that represented the Germans who had lost this bit of ground a month ago to an English shell. Who knew if the Huns would return the favour and send their bones to mix with the others?

His nose burned; a certain sign that rain was coming for smells were not only sharper, they were literally rising out of the ground. The sweet alkaline base of the clay trench mixed against the dull bread-like heat of grasses dried brown and faint. The distant river carried a tinge like rusted iron. He did not want to look upon it.

The old officer hurt all over; his _shoulder_ no longer hurt with the fervor of his youth…it merely failed to move as successfully as in the past. When he slept his leg became a liability; it stiffened up on him when he roused and needed precious moments of exercise to become mobile again.

If only War was one of those foolish regimented things the old guard spoke of. War would start at a polite hour and end at dusk; he would be able to wake himself before the dawn and re-limber his bones and stop being _quite_ so much of a liability. And yet how foolish it was to wish for some rules on when war could be fought. It was a silly thought, but so appealing in his weak moments. A time-line would permit the weary man to rest, or marshal his strength, or write a letter home one last time. Even when he had been a combatant in Afghanistan he had taken no pride in the thought he had killed a man because that man was unguarded. It made him feel as if he were no different than a cold germ, or fatal bacteria attacking a man's constitution.

Was this why old officers appeared foolish in the eyes of the young men? Because they were seeking a balance that would increase their own worth in the battlefield? Watson knew a young man's war was different from the older man's: their thoughts, approaches and strategies were different and both minds were needed but it was difficult for any man to accept they had been promoted out of the even field of battle and into the quieter ranks of command. He supposed the difference was the good commander, who wished to prevent the horrors of their own past upon the new young men…and the bad commander, who sought to relieve that same bloody past with these same willing pawns.

In the grey half-light before dawn, Watson could no more stop pondering human nature than could his dearest friend. Possibly because it was important to them both to find the causes beneath the condition. What was it Lestrade had said? The tiniest of memories emerged and fluttered against his mind. Something about that very statement. He wanted to remember it but it had been a fleeting memory.

Holmes would remember, he was certain. Holmes always remembered; that was his blessing and his curse.

He turned his head and crumbs of broken clay, like feta cheese, broke off the edges of the trench wall and rolled off his cheek on the way down. He blinked. He reached up with an arm that no longer knew how to protest, and brushed his skin free. A German soldier's brass button looked back at him from the death-wall, preserved for all eternity in the clay. Watson knew with a sense that would be insulted with explanation that the button's owner was on the other side.

"What is it, Toddy?" Someone asked—the rough, pebbly voice of gruff old Phillips, who was a venerable three-and-twenty if he was a moment, wanted to know. Watson thought of how the man sounded like his father back when he was patrolling the early beat with Briggs, and had to fight to keep a smile back.

The medic had other brothers and sisters, but Watson saw his father in the young man. He had his same bearing, short way of talking with his dry wit and short vocabulary.

"Word from the back," the young man announced just as the heavy skies opened up and heavy drops of rain fell. "No smoking tonight. They're worried the Fritzes will see our lights from the higher ground."

"Bloody lovely," Someone muttered with that most perfect British understatement. For a brief time the sound of heavy raindrops striking against hastily-assembled canvas shelters was the only sound.

-

The Great Conflict was postponed for the day (at least for this part of the world), on account of rain.

-

**London:**

Beneath the microscope the yellow limestone was a treasure trove: the thinnest of grey lines created etched limestone creatures: things that looked like finely webbed netting, or sea-sponge…or tiny grey tori1 that spilled and spread throughout the pale yellow stone like a broken necklace. These were sea-lilies, broken apart like a child's toy blocks (if the blocks were shaped like tiny bicycle tyres) to settle upon the floor of a mysterious ocean and then slowly, painfully, be covered up in the tiny one-celled creatures who lived and died by the millions.

This was ordinary limestone, and yet so much more. This was the band of exposed soft earth upon which the _Archaeopteryx_ had spent its last breath. He could see it now in his mind, the splayed long limbs of delicate bone and spread-out feathery traceries upon the stone.

This was the same yellow stone that made the great lithographs of the world.

Nick enjoyed art with the ease and lack of sweat that came with someone who has no intentions _whatsoever_ to join the elite. He could see the small details and still be unimpressed by each one. Show him a sample of the most innovative oil paints and he would pay more attention to the brush-marks.

But in this…

The big man frowned to himself, working his bottom lip back and forth between his teeth as he studied grotesquely-swelled fossils. Every grain of dust was magnified as well, and he had spent some time gently blowing particles off his samples. The true limestone was almost as distracting clean as dirty: the bulk of the stone was comprised of small, round organisms with hard mineral shells. When they died the shells remained but compressed tightly, and some possessed a gloss that could reflect light like tiny mirrors.

Nick pulled the last slide of the day out from beneath the glass and leaned back, rubbing his eyes. His shoulders ached; his neck was stiff. Little lavender blobs of light danced on the white inner-curtains of the small lab. He was tired and…despite a large sandwich at noon…feeling hungry.

A quiet tap against the doorway announced his brother's presence. Slight and dark, Martin was holding a waxed paper parcel with a tea tray balanced lightly in his other hand. "It looks like another long evening for me," he explained. "I thought I might as well fortify myself."

"I'll be pleased to help you in that, big brother." Nicholas straightened slowly, and things un-knotted in his spinal column from top to bottom.

"Thought you might." They found an empty table in the corner and started on a large stack of cold sandwiches. "How are those horrible pigeons doing, Nick?"

"They're not horrible." Nicholas reminded him patiently. "They're just not very bright to the eye."

"They're the same colour as the bricks in London." Martin pointed out. "If they're not moving you can't see them at all."

"I know. It makes them a bear to catch when they escape."

"They're homing pigeons! How could they escape?"

"They just try to roost on top of the coop and don't like it when someone gets close. The parrots are less of a fuss."

"You're still keeping them?"

"I don't think they'd survive the year. The weather wasn't the problem so much as there's not enough food in London now for a lot of the animals…and the rats are breeding as swift as they ever did."

"They should move down to the East End…I hear they're complaining about the price of fish right now…"

"You're awful, Martin."

"No…just wishing I could give up and have a tiny vacation." Martin buttered a spare slab of thick bread as he spoke, his hands on his task and his eyes on his hands. "I've been working without even a day off…since before the Kaiser started. I don't see how Tad managed to do what he did."

"But he had a day off." Nicholas pointed out. "Two a month."

"When he wasn't recovering from a bullet or a knife or a--whatever had happened…Mamm says he must have missed half a year of work from all the convalescing." Martin bit into his bread with too much force, swallowing with his bread the words that wanted to come out. "My own-uns are down with coughs and stuffy noses, and I can barely get myself presentable in my own mirror."

Nicholas hesitated, wondering what he should say. "Do you want a report now or later?" He offered.

Martin blinked, weary. "Do you have something to report?"

"Most of the plates are the right sort of limestone." Nick admitted. "Some aren't, but I don't think they're too far away from the regular strata."

"Is the quality as good?"

"A mite softer. Some engravers would enjoy it." Nick took a deep breath. "But what about the other side of the plates, Martin?"

Martin's eyes sharpened. "What did you see?"

"Old, used engravings of course." Nick answered back with asperity. "Engravings of the German countryside…and cities…and all the major cities of Europe…" His large hands tapped upon the polished wood. "They're more detailed than any photograph would be. I'm not as smart as you, Martin. That doesn't mean you have to play me for a fool." Identical Cheatham-blue eyes met across the table. "You're checking those lithographs for their authenticity, aren't you? So the Home Office knows the information about the city plans are good. Might come in handy if we're going to go blow up a few towns with our airships, eh?"

"No." Martin snapped. It was short and curt as a whipcrack. "You know as much as I do what our battlebags are like!" He took a deep breath. "But someone abroad has been trying to send us false information about the true reserves on the Continent."

Nicholas relented a little bit. "Why not just tell me?"

"If you didn't know, and you saw something on your own, that would be proof no one could say we'd tampered with." Martin rubbed at his forehead—a move that made him look very much like their father just then. "It's someone from our side, that's what makes it all worse."

"Tell me."

Nick didn't often pull sway on Martin. Hardly ever. But Martin never refused him.

"The true lithograph plates come from that one strata of limestone. There are three lithograph companies who supply us. They all have family ties on both sides."

The brothers ate in miserable silence for some minutes.

"You have to wonder how Tad felt when France was at war with Prussia, and his own people were sent to the front lines as cannon fodder."

"I've thought about it." Martin confessed. "But I'm still afraid to ask him."

-

In the wet of the trenches, Dr. Watson's men were discovering the rare and unexplainable joys of humour within the most destitute conditions: Forbidden the use of matches until the end of German shelling (which had stopped anyway due to the rainfall), Chaplain Root had deflected the horrid gloom upon the smokeless company by plucking up a fat glow-worm from the bottom of the trench. In great affected stuffiness he aped a sober commanding officer trying to "make do" and put the men in silent agonies by trying to strike a light of his pipe with the bewildered insect.

Watson had laughed as hard, and silently, as the rest even as the tears washed the grime from his cheeks and his ribs throbbed in protest. In the end he was no better than the lowliest private, begging Root to stop and take pity on them all.

"Enough," he pleaded. "Enough, Chaplain. The Huns will think we're mocking them from the other side of the Line and try to shoot us anyway!"

"I don't see how they can get a pop-gun to fire in this." Lieutenant Jones said in wonder. "What a bloody useless command!"

"It's because of the upper end." Private Caspar assured him. "It's perfectly dry up that way. We're the only ones with a vacation tonight."

"Some vacation." Harker sighed. The rain lapped against their ankles in the lowest spot; the narrow planks tossed down for walking were drowned. "I just wish I could stand up so I could get some sleep."

"Do like the ol' Gaffer there." Jones suggested. He jerked his thumb to the side, where Watson had peacefully wrapped himself inside his oilskin as tightly as a cabbage roll, and gone to sleep with a relaxed look on his face. "No doubt he's an old hand at this, is there? That fallin' asleep takes practice."

-

"_The underlying condition of human nature."_

_The Inspector smiled slightly. So many years had passed between the three of them; polite derision on himself and Holmes, with Watson mediating between the two ostensively, if he usually took Holmes' side in discussions. He remembered this in his dream; knew this was all right.  
_

"_And that, Mr. Holmes," he announced calmly, "May very well be the largest difference between us."_

_Holmes tilted his head to one side, too curious to offer one of his ripostes. "Only one, Inspector?"_

"_Possibly." Lestrade stopped for a moment to enjoy the cigar. "It's all to your credit, I'm sure."_

_Watson had no idea where this was headed, and a side-glance at Holmes confirmed that the little man was about to offer one of his surprising revelations. These moments were naturally few—surprising Holmes was not something a man tried to do unless he swore fealty to the God of Lost Causes. And Lestrade, professional, limited, and dogged, could only claim a few of these marks to his tally._

_They waited, for outside the atmosphere of duty, Lestrade was a very different person from the Yard. He never completely shed its coat, but he could shrug off its heaviest layers. By the fire with a brandy he was in a place where he could be encouraged to think without pressure, and he was doing so right now. His mind would never approach the heights of Sherlock Holmes, but he had a horror of being misunderstood and Watson suspected that was why the man kept to his archaic, simple English when years of exposure to the better cants could have been to his betterment._

"_You both question what you see." He said at last. "Not everyone can do that, you know." _

_They knew. _

-

The night could not have possibly been more desperate to the fox-hole of huddled up men in their patched wool uniforms. Try as they might, the Germans half-under the earth were half-starved and pinched with thirst. There were never enough supplies. The Mauser rifles were as hungry as their owner's belly, only for long slim bullets in their smooth steel gullets instead of food and a cup of clear, clean water.

The young man was like everyone else—exhausted from the war and the lack of steady food, drinking water and medicine for throats rendered raw from exploded soil. He was a dreamer, with hopes of an art career at the war's end, and in his free time he had the patience to draft great, intricate, soaring architectural wonders with tiny, wormlike human creators milling at the feet of stone giants. He smiled when he drew; there was a slight bit of poetry within him that came out when they least expected it. With his back to the earth wall, his head nodded by degrees under his heavy helmet and finally sagged towards his chest. It might have been this action that inspired his following dream; when the head falls forward, it presses against the throat.

No one else in the foxhole expected him to wake up, screaming from the nightmare as in a fit; his dark eyes were wild and wide; his mouth gasped for breath he no longer felt and despite their imploring hands and words, he scrabbled like a trapped animal up the sides of the foxhole.

They had seen it before; they had fallen prey to the dreams of choking, of being buried alive as keenly as any Frenchman or Englishman. They could not stop the madness when it hit. All they could do was watch helplessly as their comrade leaped across the field.

"I have to get some air," he wheezed. "I have to get some air."

The young man was still gasping, his chest heaving as spectral sensations of earth filling his mouth and throat sent him to his knees. He did not kneel long; a shell exploded at the foxhole he had just vacated.

They had gone to their deaths believing they had allowed him to run to his.

His ears rang from the compression of shell and air and earth. The clouds were made of atomised earth, and damp…and blood.

The young man was left wondering why he was spared.

There were no immediate answers, just the questions burning in his breast.

Without further answers—then, or now, for answers born of mental illness do not count—Adolph Hitler stepped wearily to the nearest living group of his comrades.

Note: Hitler told this story many times, from the convenience of history. As he was the only survivor of the foxhole, the actual date of this incident is completely uncertain.

1 Plural form of torus


	13. MCMXV: Spring

_"I think the time has arrived when the county cricket season should be closed, for it is not fitting at a time like this that able-bodied men should be playing cricket by day and pleasure-seekers look on. I should like to see all first-class cricketers of suitable age set a good example and come to the help of their country without delay in its hour of need."_

_--Master Cricketeer W. G. Grace in a letter to The Sportsman at the start of the Great War._

_OOOOO_

_March 14: __Royal Navy__ forced the German light cruiser __SMS __Dresden__ to scuttle off the coast of Chile. Britain, __France__ and __Russia__ agree to give __Constantinople__ and the __Bosporus__ to Russia in case of victory._

_March 18: British attack on the Dardanelles fails._

_May 7: HMS Lusitania sunk._

_May 17: Prime Minister Asquith forms an all-party coalition; Britain's purely Liberal government party comes to an end._

_OOOOO_

"It'll come to nothing if the Bolsheviks get to power." Gregson snarled from his position to read, upside-down, the latest announcement of the Russian treaty. Being blond in his youth meant his hair was growing ever brighter. A positively grizzled appearance adorned his visage as proudly as a brass badge, and the encroaching growth of muttonchops gave him a stern if convincing patrician scowl. He thrust his walking-stick against the wooden floor; the passing waitress jumped like a rabbit but did no more than draw a breath of relief when she realised it was nothing life-threatening.

Lestrade re-folded his portion of the newspaper down. "Half the jokers in the deck would tell you the Bolsheviks will come to nothing."

"Which just tells you they will!" Gregson insisted. "Nothing's worse than an enemy you can't take seriously. Just look at that old case with Vamberry. No one took him seriously either."

Lestrade looked up and across the old spool table at this pronouncement. In concession to long-overdue repairs, the '_Keg's_ new owners were giving the tavern the cleaning of its existence and their temporary den meant a much-smaller gas fireplace built into the wall, plus cramped tables that had started out as large wooden cable-spools on the Isle of Dogs.

Spool tables were fine for children and certain still-limber men who would go down in literary history as being "dapper" and "little"…but Gregson was chafing at the bit to get back to his beloved old nook by the metal stove and dart-board.

Lestrade pondered all this in his mind as he poured out a fresh round of half-frozen applejack cider into large tin cups. In concession to tradition and the worthiness of age, the new owners were offering the old guards a pitcher of whatever the daily special was. At long last Gregson was learning to sample the pablum of his old rival.

"Gregson," Lestrade stopped and cleared his throat. "What did you just say?"

"You heard me, Lestrade. Nothing was ever wrong with your _ears_." Gregson sniffed. "Now, your _eyes_ have always been another matter, what with you not seeing the clues for the murder-stains…"

Lestrade bristled—the rules of their particular relationship demanded this; it was their version of polite behavior. "The one and only time you could say that of me was back in '79 when poor Mr. Galloway managed to bleed so thick over the suicide note we never could prove it was forged."

"You remembered that far back?" Gregson of course managed to praise and condemn at the same time with his astonishment.

"It helps to keep a diary." Lestrade snapped back.

Gregson snorted cider over his face and wiped it off. "I remember when you couldn't say that," he chided. "I remember, in fact, when not one single quarter of paper was safe around your oldest's pencils and chalk."

Lestrade was forced into a laugh of his own. "Glad to know all those years in calligraphy and penmanship got him a good job in the Home Office."

Gregson wasn't fooled. His eyes sharpened knowingly—Lestrade never bothered hiding his feelings around the other man.

Lestrade switched the subject. "You're going to have to explain yourself about Vamberry." He warned. "Because the way it stands right now, it doesn't make a whit of sense."

"What doesn't make sense about it? No one took him seriously, and they should have. Plain as paint. They should have taken him seriously."

"Gregson…" Lestrade took a deep breath and held it while the heat from his hand warmed the chilly cider. "Even you couldn't have taken offense at that man. He was nearsighted, had a humpback, a cleft palate, and two fingers on…his left hand? Anyway, would it ever occur to anyone—besides you—to be suspicious of him?"

Gregson smirked. It was his best trick. "You should have been suspicious of him from the very beginning, old fellow."

"There was nothing in the beginning of that case that could have possibly connected him to those missing botanists!!"

"That's quite against the point, Lestrade." Gregson poised his drink and flicked a bit of foam off the rim—missing Lestrade's hand by a hair. "You should have been suspicious of him because of how such a man could have fallen into such a plum job like wine-mercantiling."

"He didn't fall into the job, Gregson—he got it from some rich relative that pitied him."

Gregson slapped the table with his palm. Pinewood creaked against copper nails. "There, you see?" He demanded. "He grew up entitled, Lestrade! Nobody ever saw reward from giving something to someone just because of pity! He got spoiled on it, the sniveling little sot. That's why he started leaking into petty crimes."

Lestrade growled but didn't argue. There never was a point with Gregson. "Perhaps, but you know we couldn't have pinned anything on him more than illegal possession of papers."

"All moot when you come down to it." Gregson shrugged. "Somebody important found the botanists inside one of the wine casks and you know they're the ones who made him take that little October swim in the Thames."

Lestrade shuddered. He usually did when someone put "swim" and "Thames" in the same sentence. "Holmes felt it was the Professor," he muttered.

"Wouldn't be surprised. He had a way of acting quick on his transgressors. And you can bet he didn't pity Vamberry."

They lingered over their drinks, listening to the rattle-lump-bump-**slam** of swearing workers struggle with crumbling wainscoting and the joys of laying fresh gaspipe away from the walls. The ruckus was controlled and rarely went above a certain level, so it was preferable to what was going on in the street. Gregson was content with noise; at home with a dumb wife and adopted son he was likely to hear himself talk if he wanted a conversation. When London got to be too much he would go home with an air of, well, satisfaction.

"Problem with Young Martin?" Gregson guessed at last.

Lestrade drew a circle in the moisture against his tin cup with a finger. "His mamm wants him to pack up and move back with us."

Gregson waited, but Lestrade was unable to explain more.

"I rather get the feeling that you might be siding with your son in disagreeing with the Missus."

"Not so much as I can't argue with either of them. They're both right, Gregson. Even you couldn't solve this case."

"Try me." Gregson dared comfortably.

Lestrade looked heavily up at the big man, his large, dark eyes even darker in the half-light. "Martin wants to stay at Throgmorton because it's away from Paddington."

"I'm missing something there, Ratty."

"Statistically, when a city is under attack, a family that is dispersed has higher odds of surviving in remnants, rather than they all band under one roof and then get that one roof blown to Heaven."

Gregson's mouth went dry as dust.

"Martin's speaking of odds and percentages. His mamm's speaking of the heart and family, so how could I possibly take sides?"

"You can't." Gregson said at last. He poured more of the cider out before he realised what he was doing. "You shouldn't." He swallowed the stuff down. "When did this start up?" He asked suspiciously. That sharp brain tracked backwards slowly. His pale eyes went tight and narrow. "This is because of…the _Lusitania_." He stated, not guessing.

Lestrade nodded once. "Martin knew…he knew some of the people on board." He said heavily. "And so did his mamm. One of her old school-friends was traveling with her entire family…_the whole family, Gregson_. Not a one of them made it. And Martin…Martin's lost two men in his own department. They were brothers and worked together…so of course no one knows where any of the paperwork's kept…"

As Gregson watched, Lestrade let his voice drift away, into silence.

It wasn't unusual that Lestrade knew some of the victims. It seemed as though everyone in London knew someone who had been on board and most of the people known had not been among the survivors.

But that choice…

Gregson weighed what he had to say. Carefully. Now that he knew why Lestrade's sleep had been suffering of late, he had to figure out the right combination of words. Lestrade knew he wouldn't try to blow sunshine up a donkey's nostrils.

"I'm staying where I am with Toby and the Missus because it's the right thing for us." Gregson said at last. "If one of those bombs drop in London…who'd know to look for two dumb people if not me? Also sounds like Martin's worried about his wife's people too. He's the man of the house now—his own house and his mother in law's. And they're two streets up in the opposite direction from you…"

"Nick's staying," Lestrade agreed thinly. "It eases Clea's fears…as much as they can be. We're practically against the station, and that makes us a decent target, doesn't it?"

"No such thing as a decent target." Gregson snorted. "Look at Gregory.1 Lost his cousin to the Dover bombing, and his nephew to the trench-fever. White lost two of his sons; he's all but mad worrying about the two he has left. Bakerson's without a single male relative to his name now. You want to bet he'll move in with his daughter when he retires?"

"She lives just off Farringdon Market, Gregson. So long as oysters are sixpence a dozen he'll be around anyway."

"And we're getting ready to say goodbye to Young Roger." Gregson turned briefly sour. "The choir's going to suffer. I just know it."

"Your choir has never sung worth a chip." Lestrade was happy to find something to scathe Gregson over. "They'd be more useful in the cricket field."

"What bloody cricket field would that be, pray tell?" Gregson wanted to know. "Grace had all the decent teams put up their bats and head to war!"

There was more than a little bitterness to Gregson's observation. He had always been a very good cricket viewer, preferring to exercise his mental tactics with what he saw on the green. Lestrade had learnt the futility of betting against him in a match; he was the one person who could successfully know when to bet _against_ W. G. Grace.

"Got to hand it to him, Gregson." Lestrade argued quietly under the ruckus bouncing off the walls. He paused to wave at a knot of retired Inspectors coming in for a quiet drink amongst their own kind. One of the Jones brothers waved back wearily; his job had been assisting the new guard and the strain was showing. Gregson smiled and waved at the poor fellow with automatic courtesy. "The most famous man in England could have said anything he wanted to, but he said cricketeers were better off helping the fight."

Gregson grunted—it was his version of agreement. "Gladstone, Grace, and God Save the Queen," he invoked the three most famous personages of the country. "If one gave an opinion, it was heard." He sipped loudly. "We're down to charity matches now. It's a mistake."

"I don't follow you." Lestrade confessed.

"He meant well, but he turned cricket against the public when he wrote that letter, Lestrade."2 Gregson poked the air at his smaller rival with a fat forefinger. "He made it impossible to enjoy the game, and did it never hit him that a game might be good for lifting the public's spirits?"

Lestrade shrugged helplessly. He'd never been that fond of cricket. He preferred the combat sports and if cricket got bloody it was the wrong sort of cricket. "What about the charity matches?" He offered. "It'll be a year before long. People miss the game, they'll host one for charity, won't they?"

"Maybe." Gregson answered with the gloomiest face Lestrade had ever seen him pull. In the flickering silver light of the gas-lamps, Gregson was silvering into his old years. Lestrade had no choice but to accept the evidence of his eyes, and know that there was great comfort to be had in the fact that the man did not inherit the brittle-bone disease that killed his mother. He'd already lived longer than one doctor's betting pool.

Gregson was still coming to terms with the fact that he'd grossly underestimated his own lifespan. Now he had to make preparations…just in case he actually did live much longer.

Neither man had expected to live this long. Being unprepared for the world in their old age was not unlike when they had been young and unprepared—only then the war had been equal parts their own public and inner corruption.

_OOOOO_

Lestrade strolled home far slower than his usual pace. Dusk slipped through the alleyways first, casting blue-black shades from the tops of the ornate buildings to criss-cross dull fingers into the street. With the starveling funds of war he was seeing fewer of the automobiles out; horses had been briefly pulled out of the fading glories and he was not sorry to share the streets with them again. What made him sad was if you saw someone being cruel to a nag back then…it was usually knowing cruelty by some fool who couldn't see the connexion between a working horse and his work. Now he was seeing another sort of fool; the awkward sort who didn't know how to work with a live animal.

His head hurt; knowing the world was changing too swiftly for the likes of him to catch up…well, that could do it. His own sense of helplessness and fear was rising in the face of forces far too large, too complex, too great for a single man to fathom.

Not _this_ single man…Martin could fathom it if he had the time outside of his work and his worries at home. Nicholas at least had the ability to think outside the tracks—unlike his hidebound old man. Sherlock Holmes had never been able to think in small lines to save his life. He'd probably seen this terrible day whilst smiling through a shot of the cocaine.

Times like this he missed Dr. Watson the most. If any man would be commended for his heart's honesty…it would be he. How he could admit to his own failings time after time was amazing. Lestrade had often cringed to hear Holmes flay them all open with his tongue…and that tongue had not even spared his closest friend. But what he wouldn't give to have one of those such moments back!

Dealing with cases where the threat of war loomed was far better than having war here. He knew in his heart it had only been a matter of time; even deposing wouldn't stop a monarch from inciting bloodshed if that was what they wanted. He remembered the submarine plans all too vividly, and the murder of a singing spy off Godolphin Street that had come close to creating a domino of death.

But those were only two cases that he'd been directly involved in. There had probably been more, but how was he to know? Sherlock Holmes had gone from the muddy street of Montague to the point where Baker Street had become just another cant for "high end, government, world-will-topple" sort of affair. At the end, five simple words were enough to strike terror in the Inspectors: "Holmes is on the case."

Not for the fact that Holmes was there…but for what he represented.

The small man—growing smaller with age; he could feel it—stopped and watched a knot of children playing by the fountain. They were too thin, grubby, and half were wanting shoes. When he was a copper he couldn't have seen a single one of those children without wondering how long before lockjaw took them. Or starvation. If it wasn't considered a disease…it ought to be. After a winter like this, he would have been helping pull frozen small bodies to the waggon.

_Holmes is on the case._

Had he truly retired? How difficult had it been to leave London? Even after his return from "death" Holmes had kept oddly quiet. Either something had been knocked out of him in his travels…or something else had happened. Either way he had not been quite the same. The signs of the cocaine upon him had been erased…at least for a time, but then disturbing things rose up in the man's behaviors.

Lestrade knew what cocaine could do to a man; knew morphine and half a hundred other balms to the soul that were no more than a temporary relief. Before Holmes had discovered the cocaine he had been a different person entirely. Once he started taking the drug his mind had cleared its cobwebs and for the first time he starting putting all that energy to good work.

A Woman Police Officer walked slowly down the street, opposite Lestrade. Lestrade stayed where he was as if waiting for a ride. Something about her drew his attention. She had a calm air about her that had nothing of the braggart's swagger he had seen in too many of her ilk. The children slowed in their play long enough to bellow their greetings and were returned with a wave of the hand. Interesting. And there was something familiar about her…not that he could pin it down just yet…

In the failing light the lamps began to glow. Some streets were still on manual light but here they were progressive. She paused beneath one, a short, sturdy little figure in her wool uniform and metal helmet.

What would Mr. Holmes think of the women in uniform? His comments about women in general had been to the effect that he didn't understand them, would never understand them. Lestrade had never understood how the man could never turn down the curiosity of an unsolved mystery and yet so staunchly ignore the most important one. He smiled to himself at a hundred memories.

A man who swore to follow logic wouldn't see anything wrong with a woman in service. Lestrade knew logic better now. He had picked up quite a secondary education while listening to his children pore over their lessons in the evenings. The learning had been far less painful than the first time around!

Women were one of the things Holmes simply couldn't understand…because he didn't want to get too close to the problem. For him the price was too high. For himself he was oddly reassured that women wanted to do something hard enough that they were working for it. It would be a hard row to hoe; and some of them would never get respect, but look at the first policemen in London. People had been honour-bound to attack them at every opportunity when they were first created.

The woman was close enough that he could hear the click of her heavy boots against the kerb. She slowed too; traffic was thinning and they were the only ones out on the street above the age of ten. The hair under the helmet was yellow and wrapped tightly.

She stopped before him; they regarded each other curiously. Lestrade's badge gleamed dully in the last of the day.

"Good-evening to you, sir."

He smiled. He heard her voice and knew it. "Am I speaking to Enid Cross, the niece of Inspector Gregory?"

"You are, sir." Her voice warmed, but it was never completely cold. Like a small lion; she was much like her uncle just lacking in his tremendous height and unruly mane of yellow hair.

"We were just speaking of your uncle just today. How is he faring?"

"Well, sir." Her eyes slipped over him for clues, and as usual, came to recognition when she spied his old-fashioned truncheon. "It is Mr. Lestrade, sir?"

"That it is. It's good to see you in London, Officer."

"Thank you, sir. It is good to see you too."

They parted, each to their own ways. The police had their own language and civilian farewells were usually awkward.

_OOOOO_

He felt gentler from the encounter. The next generation was moving in, and they carried the last one with them. They were different, but so was the world.

The world was still in sorry straits but he had to accept that as something he had no personal control over. And thank God. He couldn't bear the notion of that. Poor Martin had aged since his post at the Home Office and its responsibilities. And Mr. Holmes…well one might as well say he'd been born old and speaking in complete sentences.

The lamps of Paddington Street were muted, cautious against the chance of airships. Lestrade hurried his steps home, but at the sight of his wife standing on the front step, he hurried faster. He knew what that meant; Clea had News and she didn't want the girls to hear it just yet.

"Clea?" He called, softly as possible.

She had been crying. Tears reflected white tracks down her face and she wiped them with her handkerchief.

It's Roger," Clea choked as he reached her side. Their hands clasped; her small one almost crushed his. "There was a wreck on the line at Quintinshill. Roger was going to say good-bye to some of his nephews and…and he went to the pub for a drink and…and…the soldier's car smashed right into the other cars. The soldiers were in wooden cars because the War took the metal ones, and it's all been on fire…they can't put the fire out." She choked again. "Men, women, and children and soldiers. Hundreds of them, Geoffrey. _They can't pull them out for a burial. They can't do anything until it all burns out."_

1 Inspector Gregory, SILVER BLAZE.

2 In the start of the Great War, W. G. Grace, the man who transformed cricket (think someone twice as great as Babe Ruth for perspective) wrote a letter to the _Sportsman_ calling for a close to the county cricket season and for the players to "set an example." Many did. Matches were cancelled until after the war was over; over 200 first class players went to battle where one out of six were killed and hundred more players died in service to their country.


	14. The Mask of Tragedy

**London:**

"What's this?" Lestrade asked blurrily. His voice was like the rest of him—tired out.

"It's a list of the dead."

Lestrade took the paper. "I can't see it," he complained. "Turn the light up."

"You can't see it because you're tired." Hopkins pointed out. He was finally showing his age—Lestrade privately mourned the occasion. The lad's mind was sharp as ever—sharper, even—but there was a world-weariness to his eyes of late and the older man didn't like it one bit.

It made him feel all too keenly about the emotions within his breast when the same look came to the eyes of his sons.

"Two…two hundred…what comes after?" Lestrade asked helplessly.

"Six and twenty."

"Dear Lord." Lestrade dropped the paper and rubbed at his face. "Has anyone seen Roger since yesterday?"

"He had to go wire some money to help with the funerals." Hopkins cleared his throat. "Gregson said it's all going to be in Edinburgh."

"Edinburgh. For the soldiers. What of the…" Lestrade swallowed hard. "The others?" He tried.

_OOOOO_

**Somewhere in France:**

"It's a wonder the news got here at all."

Mr. Root's normally soft voice had a core of iron within as he held out the much-folded newspaper.

Watson took it with red-rimmed eyes. Like Lestrade, he found fatigue made a poor pair of spectacles.

"The rail didn't have any more metal-framed cars, so they put the soldiers in those old wooden matchboxes…"

Watson sank against the thin pine-wood table and risked putting the weight of his elbows upon the surface. He stared at the soft wood-grain as the lad spoke. The wood was scarred, branded with a single hot nail hammered to a chisel-tip and he'd used a metal ruler's edge to create lines upon lines and then filling in the alternate squares for chess or draughts. The makeshift hospital had smelt of sweet scorched wood against the softer, duller tang of rain and alkaline clay against waterproofed canvas.

That canvas stretched over their heads now, a khaki coloured drumskin that beat patiently with the percussion of rain. It collected in corners and overburdened, splashing falsetto into the shallow puddles at their battered shoes. Watson shuddered at the possibility of surgery under these conditions. In the desert the air had been germ-free. This was not the case.

"Sent them to Gallipoli." Lincoln added bitterly. He was a close mate of Root; the two were close as war could make two men. "Sent them to Liverpool for Gallipoli, and you saw what happened to them then…"

_OOOOO_

**London, Paddington Street:**

Down the hallway, Clea heard Geoffrey's voice choke up over the telephone.

"…_and then," he continued after a pause, "then the fact that these are soldiers is keeping everything all quiet. They don't want too much of the real word getting out…problem is Roger knew someone who had a cousin up there, said two of the men in charge of the lines were lax in their duties…"_

Clea lowered the knitting in her lap and simply stopped. The girls stopped too. Even knitting on the jumpers for next year felt like a lamely frivolous past-time in the view of the horror. Jenny's eyes were kept down; her face had been too pale since the news had been released. It took no genius to dowse her thoughts…or her feelings.

Maggie was simply silent—within and without. They had their father's unnerving brand of patience without his restless fidgeting, and they had an instinctive ken for emotions that amazed everyone.

"_Three of them." Geoffrey was saying into the telephone. "Two of them were Roanes, Basil—old Basilisk's namesake—and his first cousin Jamie…but the younger was a MacAlpin…Gregg MacAlpin…father used to work with old Mac. No, there wasn't much left, but they could tell what killed them. It was the wreck sure and simple." More silence. "No, they found them by the watches their fathers gave them before they set out." Pause. "Eh? No. Six and Twenty. Plus two hundred. Yes. 52 Lowland Division. No, they were all 7__th__ Battalion."_

Maggie looked at Jenny. Jenny was still looking down.

"_Sent all sixty survivors to Liverpool!" Geoffrey's voice slipped into raw bitterness. "They were so sickish from shock at surviving; people took them for prisoners of war and tried to stone them as they marched past!" He took a deep breath. "I'll be going with Roger to the final services. No. No. No—Edinburgh, yes. Rosebank Cemetary. No. Yes…"_

Jenny tried to take up her knitting again, and simply gave up.

"_I daresay it wasn't." Geoffrey's voice collected heat. "It wasn't the crash that killed so many people, it was the fire! Those older cars still had the gaslamps going, and when it got mixed up with the coal—For God's Sake, Joseph. They couldn't put the fire out! It took over four hours to bring in the fire-fighters—and they had to tromp the last mile over the field! Five trains all collided up like that! I've never seen such a disaster—they say it's the worst in our history and I believe it. I couldn't forget anything approaching this bad." A pencil went tap-tap-tap against the telephone-desk. Geoffrey's patience was fraying at the ends. His decaying grip of English was a sure sign._

"_No, I'll leave it to you to sort all that out, Joseph. And good luck to you—you'll be needing every inch of it. Yes. Well, I'll see you later. Good-night."_

None of the three women moved or spoke as the phone was returned to its cradle with undue force. A heavy tramp alerted them to the return of the man of the house.

"Flat-headed fools." He bit off each word with the use of his still-sound teeth. "They're not even asking the right questions in all this mess!" Simmering like one of Clea's teapots, he disregarded his usual personal protocols and went for the small bottle of chouchen on the shelf. "They should be asking about the _legal_ mess."

Jenny swallowed hard and rose. She put her knitting-bag aside and quietly went upstairs. Maggie shook her head slightly; the room developed a deeper pall.

"She's so upset." Maggie said at last. Softly.

Clea reached over and put her hand over Maggie's. "She's thinking about how she rejected Young Roger's hand before he left to serve."

"I still don't know why she did it." Maggie blurted. "She loves him, doesn't she?"

"She's frightened, dear." Clea kept her voice low and calm. _The entire world is frightened—look at Geoffrey, drinking hours before his usual time_. "She thought it would be better for them if he went to War without worrying about a young bride."

"That's rubbish." Maggie stabbed her knitting with her needle, expecting a parental scolding. She never got it. "Rubbish," she repeated while tears pricked her eyes. "She thought she'd be sparing him—what can you spare a soldier? They said it would all be over by now—less than a year. It's not going to be a year. It's not going to be over. The War's come here, hasn't it? It's been here all along. Taddiz isn't shoring up the house against the suffragists!"

"Not yet, anyhow." Geoffrey said with a light quirk upwards of his mouth. "So long as they stick to arming themselves with cricket-bats I doubt I'll have to." His tired face creased in understanding, but he wasn't going to try to talk to their youngest, nor chide the next-youngest for being outspoken. "He'll come home or he won't." He pointed out. "It's not in our hands. It never was in our hands."

"These things never will be." Maggie gulped hard. A moment later the parents were left alone in the room.

Clea sighed helplessly. "I wish it would stop." She said helplessly. "I should go with you."

"Stay home, ma-mel." Geoffrey rested his large hand upon her shoulder from behind the settee. The May rains had set a smelly damp into London and the fire was pleasant. "Jenny's going to pieces. She thought she was doing the right thing, the mature thing…and now she's facing the worst part of maturity."

"And which would that be?" Clea asked dully.

"That there are times when there is no good solution to be had. She had her reasons for putting a delay on the wedding."

"You know full well why. Because that poor Imogene Ford is in her confinement right now, with mourning-black on her dress and the baby's father a skeleton in a ditch somewhere." Clea gulped hard and put the back of her hand to her mouth. Saying it only made it worse. It forced the truth to become real.

Geoffrey wordlessly pulled one of her handkerchiefs out of his sleeve and let her ruin it with her tears.

"Thank you." Clea said at last. She sniffed loudly. "It's worse than they said, isn't it? That's why Joseph was asking you for information…not the papers."

"It's worse than they _think_." Geoffrey growled. "Most of the deaths finished up in Carlisle Hospital. That means the deaths are _English_ deaths, but the deaths at Quintinshill are _Scottish_ deaths—so those fools are liable for English Manslaughter, and Scottish culpable homicide at the same time..!" Geoffrey took another drink. Clea joined him.

"It's this way," he cleared his throat. "Under Scottish law, the _act_ that results in loss of life has to occur on Scottish soil. However, under English law, it is the _loss_ of life that has to occur on English soil." He sighed. "A clever barrister can find a man guilty of murder in Scotland if he can prove he paid a man for the act of murder in Scotland. In England, an equally clever barrister for the defence can twist that like an old stocking."

"Oh, what a pickle." Clea said without thinking.

Geoffrey was surprised into a snort. "Been a dog's year since I heard you say that." He observed. "You've been listening to your grandchildren again."

Clea sniffed one final time and paused to give him a friendly bat on the shoulder. "Well." She said bravely. "We might as well finish with that chimney before I try to start on supper."

"I'm actually in a mood to do it." Her husband said bravely. He stopped for the pair of workman's slops hanging on the wall on their way down. "We need to get the rest of this place fixed up before Nick's wedding. Else his mother in law will make life intolerable for them both."

Clea pointed out that Ivy was nothing like her mother. "She's calm."

"You'd be calm too if you had that hysterical Harpy for a mother." Geoffrey managed to hide his talk by his work—he was halfway up the old kitchen chimney, struggling to re-adjust a filch of bacon inside the throat. "Oh, bother!" He exclaimed.

"What is it?"

"I think the rats are back."

"Oh, that's—wait, dear. You _think_?"

"It's a little hard to tell, but that does seem to be part of a rat."

Clea closed her eyes. "Geoffrey, dear…dear, _dear_ Geoffrey…what is _part_ of a rat doing in my chimney?"

"Well it's not enjoying life, I'll tell you that…d'you have a set of tongs or something I can get it up with?"

Clea prayed under her breath, but finally found an old rag. "Use this."

"I thought you were saving that for the rag-man."

"It's not linen so he won't be too interested…" Clea took a hasty step backwards. A very grubby husband crawled awkwardly out of the worst part of the kitchen with the offending object in his hand. "You need to tell your sons to do that!" She exclaimed.

"Nicholas would get stuck up there!" Geoffrey pointed out. "And Martin's head is so in the clouds of the Home Office he'd forget what he was doing!" He quickly dropped the mummy into the dustbin and shook his hands off with a shudder. "Barney won't thank us for this," he thought of their usual dust-man…a Welshman who thriftily sifted the dust out for anything useful before taking it elsewhere.

"He'll sell it to the bone man." Clea had faith.

"Won't be taking that gamble…" Geoffrey pulled his working-slops off with hurried relief. He even sighed when his wife ran the water out of the tap. "Oh, thank you." The strongest bar of soap followed. "Well, that's that…crisis averted until the next family get-together, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," Clea agreed. "But I'm still worried about Ivy."

"Ivy can take care of herself. She's not clinging ivy."

"That's the problem. Her family wants her to be the one to take care of them."

"Hah. Mother's a screaming hysteric bound for Bedlam! And her father…" Geoffrey snorted, sending a soap-bubble aloft. "Her father's on his way to professional drinking. The only reason why he's kitted out so smart is his lucky play in the stocks. I tell you, some people have luck, some people have _all_ the luck, and some people, like that priceless fool…they're the ones who are only lucky once."

"But _such_ luck." Clea passed him the towel and he wiped his face, neck, hands—anything that could have touched the chimney. He picked up his water-glass with a final salute.

The Kitchen door thrust open and bounced off the back wall.

"Nick?" Geoffrey spluttered over his drink. "What the devil is that thing?"

Nick grinned, pleased that he could still startle his father. "It's another parakeet." He held the cage aloft. "Two of them, actually. They're a matched set. They're very sociable."

His father stared. "Those aren't like the last things you brought in, are they?"

"Yes, they are. It appears to be a rare mutation." Nick beamed so brightly one could have used his pride to light the kitchen. "They're probably hatched from the same nest."

Lestrade was so tired he was blinking, but the birds were still there every time he looked. Splotches of white marked the female (he guessed it was a female), and the male was white all over. Blood red eyes winked back at him in an agreement of disconcertion. "What exactly are you going to do with them?"

"Christmas gifts." Nick swept off into his bedroom.

"It's not even Guy Fawkes!" Geoffrey protested, too late, once he had recovered. He caught a tiny giggle in the back of his ear. "Did you see that?" He demanded helplessly. "It's not All-Saints! Or All-Hallows…it's not even Lammas! Or Saint-John's Eve! It feels like we only just got through with _Nettlemass_!" Clea was openly laughing at this point. "Bloody blazes." Geoffrey cursed violently in his wonder. "Is that our son or a changeling?"

"Hmph. That little trick he does with his mouth didn't come from the Cheatham side!"

"Well everything _else_ did."

Geoffrey plunked to the little table of his preference and risked female ire by placing his elbows on the table to rest his head. Clea didn't scold because he took off his coat first.

"Shall I make you some coffee?"

"Might as well…won't be much longer the price of coffee will be to the point where we'll roast cabbage-roots or something worse to get a cup."

"That's dandelion root, or chicory, or even white oak acorn." Clea chuckled. She poured a small cup from the ever-stewing pot on the warm corner of the stove and pressed it forward. "I've had all three, mind you and the first two are the most pleasant."

"I'll agree with you, though I've never tried the acorn coffee."

"I'm surprised those Gipsies never tested you on such a cup."

"They wouldn't have wasted a perfectly good acorn on an imitation coffee." Geoffrey sighed as he smiled; he was recovering his temper. "They used them for making hearth-bread. Not bad, either."

"That reminds me," Clea said abruptly. "The moment the conkers start to drop in the autumn, I want the grandchilder to bring me all they can find."

"You think we'll be running out of soap?"

"Autumn's the time to start running out of everything."

He took it but gloomily stared into the inky surface before drinking. The bubbles had risen to the top, breaking softly as soon as they touched the air. "Bad weather's coming," he scryed.

"You know, when I first met you, I would have thought you were anti-superstitious."

"Well, I tried." He confessed sadly. "It's harder than it looks."

"I can imagine." She leaned down to kiss the top of his head. He'd run low on the antimacassar oil and she could smell something of the Metro in his hair as a result. It wasn't unpleasant; she doubted he would ever be able to scrub out the lingering proofs of his badge from his skin.

His hair was completely unruly when it wasn't tamed by the oil. She knew and was amused by his endless attempts to look respectable for his profession. Every great once in a while, his hair won the daily battle.

"When will you go, love?" She asked gently.

"After I get a call from Roger." He said quietly. "And I'll be back as soon as I can."

"You'd best be." She advised tartly. "I'm not facing an overgrown boy bird-collector, two weeping daughters, and the addition of mad mothers-in-law alone!"

He was still chuckling as he rose, draining his coffee in its small cup, and went to seek out a fresh change of clothes for the trip. Clea remained where she was for the moment, soothed by her kitchen. The small clusters of hanging herb spread downward like protective fingers.

Alone, she rested her fingers around her own cup, letting the warmth collect into her fingers. Before her rested the stack of letters Geoffrey had "forgotten" to take upstairs upon his return home.

He hadn't wanted the girls to see them; Nicholas wouldn't have noticed the post anyway.

Poor Geoffrey, Clea thought with feeling. His work as a policeman had demanded his occasional foray into the world of the government—but he hadn't liked any of it, saying there was dishonesty to an art form. Pretense and professed ignorance bothered him to the core. And here was the latest proof that he would be expected to play for their government so long as he wore the Badge.

She wouldn't look at the letters. She didn't have to. Geoffrey had put the most important one on top. It was his way of letting her know where he intended to be—before or after his trip with Roger; the disaster was being used as a wretched smokescreen for others' interests. The Mask of Tragedy.

But she'd give much to know why he was corresponding with Mr. Holmes.


	15. To Imperil Thousands

**London:**

Stanley Hopkins felt old for the first time in his life.

It was not a sensation for which he was prepared; who was? In youth one mistakes simple fatigue and the dispiritingly heavy thoughts of their tender years as experience, age, and entropy.

The real truth comes later when you squint before the mirror wondering which side to shave first in the dawnlight; and you realise your bone-deep fatigue doesn't have a thing at all to do with your physical ability…

…it comes from what's inside your head, lurking just behind your two eyes.

And that lurking thing is called _a jaded outlook._

That morning he faced the light of the truth; he had been a busy man…very busy these many past years. He was well thought of, respected, and supported in ways he didn't feel he half deserved and he had completely missed what was happening within himself.

If anyone feels one penn'orth of inadequacy, the odds are fine that he will feel the amount trebled when he stands before the mirror in his bath, lowering the tortoiseshell comb to the edge of the sink with a heavy clink of bone. The sensation will be trebled twice over, it is agreed, if the strident voice floating up the stairs of your tiny flat reminding you of breakfast is of your landlady, not your wife.

_That being because your wife, whom you would have risked the world for, is dead. Dead of a weak heart no one knew she had and a sorry comfort that it was supposedly painless. She wouldn't have told you. She loved you too much to leave any ghosts behind._

In his rawest youth he had not imagined himself capable of loving any woman and remaining dutiful to his profession. He had learnt hope; he had learnt to fight for it. They had lived and they had been happy until the emergence of a fluke of cardiovascular tendencies. At least his daughters were unlikely to inherit their mother's tendency. The doctor was firm on that. At one time Stanley had mourned the loss of his infant son but now…now with war staining the air all he could think of was how much safer it was to be a daughter.

Married younger than their parents, both his girls were back in Cambridgeshire tending to elderly relations and he was grateful. He didn't think the Germans would bomb the marshes unless they were tragically off course and inebriated.

For once his morning thoughts were sliding out of his own self-satisfying grief. He was thinking of Roger Bradstreet. _His_ family was a vital one, but so were their sorrows. The dead nephews, he understood, had all visited at one time or another and the newswires had delivered the chilling news that Edinburgh had failed to fly the flags in half-mast in respect for the dead. It was a slap in the face of propriety if this was true. The people were being buried in Edinburgh after all! With any luck, Lestrade wouldn't be holding Bradstreet back from a poor showing at the funeral.

Hopkins finished up his appearance in a desultory fashion. His thoughts were constantly wandering, and he wondered dully if this would be a sign of encroaching dementia. He was not enthusiastic of late. His work had become a refuge instead of a career. Part of his mind toyed with the notion of moving back to the old police barracks; he wouldn't be the only "regretful bachelor" in the lot. Just looking at the tiny flat and its memories was painful, and his daughters kept pressing him with "pleasant young widows of their acquaintance."

_Pleasant young widows…_

It was another reason to be grateful for their absence in London. Cheathams ran strong to sons and Hopkins' ran to daughters, and the rare Hopkins male could rarely call his life his own. From cradle to grave he was surrounded and commanded by women. They were only doing what came natural to their lights. They didn't want him to be alone. He didn't want to be alone either…but it was their mother he missed and no one else.

Everyone said that grief faded in time. When? It had been two years this week and he still viewed the world with colourblind eyes. In the fairy tales it all ends with the "happily ever after" but Hopkins felt in his bitterness that the stories always cut short hastily, before finishing out.

He crossed to the living room and picked up the paper draped over his breakfast eggs. A printed flyer fell from the pages: London at night, flooded in darkness save for the glare of searchlights from above as bloated battlebags dropped bombs. Below the horror the print shouted at him that it was better to join the army and face the enemy than to wait for bombs to drop on his head at home.

No; no fairy tales. In the real world, a perfect kingdom full of peace was ripe for invasion.

He didn't agree with the tripe he was looking at. How did the women or children feel to see and read this? It wasn't as though as they could pack and leave! Small wonder even old flower-ladies huddled on the market and little girls pressed brothers, sons and fathers to join and fight. How else were they to be protected? Lestrade's sons were putting up a good front but a blind man could see how miserable they were. Martin's cleverness had gone against him; too late the lad had understood that there is a consequence to having one's intelligence setting him apart. It might mean he would be doing his country a favour by working at the Home Office, but he was a man and a man didn't like having his freedom to choose taken away from him.

Nicholas had it even worse. Physically he appeared to be perfectly fine. But the flaw in his ear could lead to death in war—his own or worse, his mates. Hopkins knew full well the man was getting fresh taunts on a daily basis—and they were getting worse—but he and Gregson were doing what they could to filter the worst from their father. God forbid they slip; if they did they would hear about it. Lestrade was getting on in years and it had been ages since he last battled physically, but he was vicious when it came to his wits in battle.

Gregson and Lestrade both had their hands too full nowadays. The strain was showing and there had been a time when neither man would have blinked at their workload. But even the best of men need to stop and rest _sometime_. When they got home late they spent their sleep-hours examining their homes for flaws…and when they arose they left early, knowing the same fears were infecting London.

Quintinshill…

Quintinshill was one of those moments of history that might make…or break the men. It was as bad as the entire world since it opened into war…only condensed into the horror of a single event.

Hopkins finished his breakfast eggs and picked up his dinner pail by the door. Heat from the scalding tea collected in the bail at his fingertips; a plume of steam followed his wake in the strange chill of May. He hoped they would have a milder year than the last; the signs were glum.

_OOOOO_

**France:**

"Hello?" Watson was uncertain of the young man before him. The man himself was little help; he was reading with his back propped up against the hogshead used to store the miscellaneous stores. "I beg your pardon. I thought that…well…I thought you were the chaplain."

"I am, sir." Was the calm answer.

Watson was rarely this nonplussed. Now that he stepped closer, he could see it was Chaplain Root after all. "Colonel Jacobs asked that I invite the Rabbi for supper and that he was in the library."

Root grinned. "In the old days, a man with two posts was offered two meals. I wonder if that would qualify as I am both?" The young head tilted up and a face of merry mischief and polar-blue eyes shone at him. "But, when in the rare cases the rabbi and the chaplain are the same animal, it is a saving of time to place him in two posts at once and use but one plate upon the table."

Watson struggled to think. "You are…a Messianic Jew?"

"My real name Shiwar Tivon Root—well, Root is a simple name and we took it for the ease of the ears of the rest of the world." The youth flashed a smile that was strangely beautiful in the emerging light. All these weeks in the trench, Watson had thought his hair brown. Without the constant rain of trench-dust upon his head and shoulders, his shorn locks were ink-black. "My great-great grandfather knew you, Dr. Watson. He designed your wedding suit for the middle of winter."

"Mr. Root…" Watson felt a ridiculous smile bloom upon his tired face. In this young Jew he felt as though he was reunited with a small piece of London. "It was a fine suit…warm yet light and supple…I needed every bit of its give for the dancing later! And it never once chafed at my old wounds."

"He felt it was one of his masterpieces." The intern neatly closed his little prayer book and adjusted his collar. After unrelenting weeks in the filth of the trenches they all looked like strangers after hot showers and shaves and even hair-cuts that didn't need the squint of a mirror-shard poised over a broken plank. The hospital had saved the wounded and ill…and it had returned the hospital staff to the land of the living.

Watson was positive he would not have recognised Root without a foot of mud.

His eyes were a deep, electrifying blue against his flawless gold skin. Watson had seen similar, equally pleasing contrasts of the East and West in his brief India post. This boy held no bitterness at being overtly different; the spiritual aether about him was too overt.

Watson settled into the overstuffed leather chair that had once been a broken half-barrel and a shattered couch before clever artists married the two. "I hope I was not interrupting anything."

"No, sir. I was only practicing my duties." Root had left a finger inside the pages of his book to mark it. "It is no simple thing for me to write to my newspaper."

Watson was abruptly at sea again. "You are a journalist?" He wondered. "I thought you were a man of God."

"And so I am called." The smile became a grin. "Perhaps someday I will deserve it." He turned his water-clear gaze thoughtfully to the sweep of land on the other side of the glass. "You look troubled, sir."

"Some of the men would feel comfort in mentioning Quintinshill at the service tonight." Watson explained soberly. "It is a terrible thing to think of disaster at home."

Root nodded. "Is it true? They shot their own men to spare them death in the fire?"

"It is." Watson said heavily. "And I…I am an old solider, and so I cannot fault them for this decision. It takes but a second for a young man to become an old soldier…or a dead one. But some will protest these were the acts of cowardice."

"Then let them protest in public." Root answered evenly. "If they feel that way they ought to be able to back up their words before the stones are cast." The words were soft, mild, but the thinnest wire of iron rested beneath the voice. Watson shuddered in sympathy for he recognised that voice. He had used it himself, and for much of his life.

"You speak from experience, Chaplain…Rabbi…"

"Just Mr. Root. I am young with much to learn. Hardly upon your level."

Watson found himself laughing. "I am hardly on the level of a Rabbi," he chuckled.

"But you are." Was the calm answer. He came to a decision, and pulled his book away from his book-mark, held it out to the surprised doctor. "Perhaps you might enjoy reading this," he offered. "When you have time to read."

He hopped to his feet as though he weighed little more than the air, and Watson found himself alone in the room. It was diminished in the boy's absence.

_Purpose_, he realised. _The boy is nothing but purpose…but what is his purpose?_

Only then did he think to look at the book.

_**The Duties of the Heart**__**, by Rabbi Bachye,**_

_**translated by Edwin Collins**_

_**1909**_

_"For all works _

_God will bring into judgment,_

_over every hidden thing _

_whether good or bad."_

He read the words aloud, and the man he was, former young soldier and old patient doctor, shivered the way metal does when the proper tuning-fork strikes against its sides.

_OOOOO_

**Sussex:**

Holmes consulted the Bradshaw before arranging supper. The weather had grown fey and wet off the Channels and the salt-air blew rime against the walls of his cottage. He found himself fretting over the state of his hinges, for salt was corrosive in the extreme.

"Now that's why most of the sensible folks have their hinges cut of wood, sir." His housekeeper tutted her exasperation. "No favours they did you when they sold you this house. No one else would take it with its newfangled metal hinges and its electricity. Good enough to call the lightning down on you."

Holmes had faced various forms of this dark retrospective advice. He knew of twenty houses built no differently than his own in the village, but if age came with wisdom he had learnt not to mock local folklore and legend.

She left the house according to his and to her own satisfaction—in this particular war he had grown skilled in ceding the battlefield. Assured of her competence the woman all but dusted her hands off as she strode briskly down the shell walk to her nephew's cart. Here was one place in the world where the automobile was not favoured…

The tureen kept warm by the fire. Holmes was not yet ready to surrender his kitchen to modern methods of cooking any more than the housekeeper was to surrender her fate to machines. He smoked absently over one of the new books ordered by post, and found nothing new or overtly alarming in the latest pacifist movement in the States. He was setting it aside with a sniff of disdain when the glimmer of lamps came up the road.

Holmes knew the sound of every automobile on his side of Surrey—all twelve—and recognised the particular hum and rattle as one of the Wright's from the train station. His visitor was coming.

He stood at the edge of the doorway, pipe in hand and watched as the infernal machine ground to a halt, digging its narrow tyres into his crushed-shell driveway. The lone passenger hopped out posthaste with his mackintosh swinging, and turned only to pull a single valise out. With a quick change of money the two entities parted: the passenger backing away to avoid the inevitable spray of damp earth and chaff against his clothes from the grinding wheels.

Dazed from travel and exhaustion, Lestrade walked unevenly to Holmes' step. His dark eyes were wide from his trip. Holmes' sharp eyes took in the little details from his approaching guest: travel stained his collar and the cuffs of his trousers from beneath the shelter of the large coat. That battered old bowler hat would have to be forcibly retired; the man preferred the hard-crowned hats for their ability to protect his head against offending objects.

More interesting to Holmes' practiced eye was the sign of sleeplessness…and to wit, what little sleep there had been was not of the nourishing type. His shoulders were bowed instead of straight and that would no doubt be alarming to his wife. Lestrade possessed the most erect posture of any man outside the military—a combination of his natural proclivities and his early training under Inspector Davids.

"I wondered if Bradstreet would be with you, Lestrade." Holmes commented.

Lestrade only shook his head from side to side, slowly. "He found some of his kinfolk at the funeral." He explained. "He was better off there. I wouldn't have left him alone otherwise."

"I doubt you would have." Holmes pressed the door open further and stepped to the side. His sharp grey criticisms upon the smaller man, who had grown a bit smaller in age. "I see the Home Office is at least permitting its officers a better coat for the elements." He sniffed.

Lestrade was long used to this form of friendship. "I miss my old pea-jackets." He mourned.

"Are you still on duty or have you merely forgotten to take off your arm-band again?" Holmes shut the door with a brisk click.

"Neither, if you must know. I kept it on deliberately. It saves me the bother later and I'm on duty as long as I'm awake as it is."

"You're too old-fashioned. That sort of attitude will send you to retirement early."

Lestrade hung up his heavy coat and added his hat; he rubbed at the kinks within his neck. "I don't see myself retiring."

"I have had some small hope that you would gain some powers of imagination in your old years."

Lestrade snorted lightly. His free hand rested a waxpaper packet on the library-chair by the telephone. Holmes noted it but heroically refused to pick it up just at the moment. He busied himself with building up the fire for his chilled guest.

Lestrade had not seen these rooms before, and he was impressed at the fact that there was no wallpaper or wainscot to be had. Books swallowed everything. It was a room of books and a few odd things here and there—some went out of odd and into positively queer.

His thoughts were jarred completely out of his head when Holmes exclaimed supper was ready and did he feel up to a pot of tea after? Shaking himself slightly, the older man agreed. Long absence did not let him forget any of his host's curious moods. There was little about Sherlock Holmes that was forgettable.

_OOOOO_

Washed up for supper, Lestrade resembled more of his old self. Holmes noted he was wearing his wedding ring again—which meant that no matter what his moods were, Lestrade was at least unconcerned about wandering into slums at night. His cloth was of finer bolt than his days as a common Inspector. Holmes was satisfied to see that. It never failed to nourish his contempt at the sight of a man who had to demand respect with holes in his shoes.

There were no signs of arthritis in his hands as he accepted his cheese and bread. The man was still taking that bitter chestnut honey of his race; his skin was dry and turning yellow again, much as he had under the poison fogs of London in his youth. The factories were at open-throttle with the efforts to match Germany, and that in turn added to the atmosphere of the city.

He still missed that rising odour.

Under the lamplight Lestrade's eyes were lined with weariness. He sipped at his soup patiently, taking the time to taste it all as be made his way to the bottom of the bowl. The black mourning-band at his arm glared for the dead of Quintinshill, and Holmes did not ask himself who it was that the man mourned for. There was not a person on the island who didn't have someone—friend, relative, acquaintance—unaffected by the tragedy.

"You have not aged appreciably, Lestrade." Holmes finally noted. They had been quiet long enough.

"Possibly not on the outside, Holmes." Lestrade made a semi-agreement. "But I assure you I feel my years within."

"Hardly surprising." Holmes spread butter over his torn portion of bread and bit into a complex sweetness with fresh parsley and a hint of salt within the cream. When Lestrade turned his head to glance at the chiming wall-clock, he showed a new stripe of lightening grey at his temples. "Do you plan on retiring?"

The question gelled the atmosphere. Holmes was simply being Holmes by asking the question. Lestrade nonetheless needed a moment to collect his thoughts.

"I never thought I'd live this long."

The confession was simple and direct—like the man himself.

"We never know the hour or the day, Friend Lestrade. And yet there comes a time to make arrangements."

"Did you ever think you would retire?" Lestrade studied the very last of the soup, possibly to avoid looking up at that fragile moment. Holmes ladled another portion into the bowls—both their bowls to prevent Lestrade's protest. Lestrade wouldn't ask for more to eat even though it was clear his nerves had cost him too many meals. He was the scion of a family that was as proud as it was poor and they would go without rather than ask their host for more than what was directly given.

Holmes had lived and worked among Lestrade's sort for most of his life. In public they were the model of fine manners and society rules…but in private they broke those rules for survival. They gave their children the first portion even though it was considered uncouth manners, watered the soup and sliced the cheese thin but they never turned down another person in need. They wore hand-carved buttons and chose colours that could be rotated without notice. They patched their clothing from the inside to keep new threads from showing. They hand-oiled their own shoes and possessed hundreds of small skills that would never occur to a gentleman of means. When they ate in private it was on the chipped, scratched and scarred dishes. When company came they brought out the good dishes from storage. They painted the rims with gilt themselves and kept everything they owned clean and neatly categorized. They rarely saw meat, but they would make certain their children never went without bread.

Lestrade was able to afford better means with his new pay. That he wasn't showing overt signs of this wealth suggested he was channeling his new monies into something important.

And he had asked him a question.

Holmes sipped his tea thoughtfully. "I never imagined I would up to a certain point." He said at last. "But my studies could go no further. I could not live in London, Lestrade. It was too much. I have found a surprising happiness with my cottage and my bees. It is a quieter life but no less rewarding. Less exciting to be sure! But when I was younger I needed stimulation and I have outgrown that need. I agreed to take one last case for my country…but I was glad to return to my home. I have seen rather too much of the world, Lestrade."

Lestrade was puzzled. "I would think you had enjoyed seeing the world. You've always been so curious."

"Curious…yes. But I have rarely traveled by choice, Lestrade. When I was "dead" I was fleeing. I could never enjoy my days and my learning was haphazard and sporadic. And then with my three years abroad again in one country…one very large country, grant you—it was not in the circles I would have chosen for myself. One would like to journey to see a country's art and music and culture. For the largest part I was in the role of a man of limited education and more enthusiasm than sense. It was a poor way to live." He breathed through his nose, slowly, and resumed his bread.

"I am through with travel." He said at last. "I travel now within my mind, and my pages. Should I live long enough to see Watson again, I will assure him that I now understand his love of the sensationalist novels. They are a genre where one can rely upon an appropriate use of visual terms in setting a mood."

Lestrade lifted his cup in a silent salute, both ignoring what Holmes had not said:

"_Should Watson live long enough that I may see him again…"_

_OOOOO_

**France:**

Shadows do not fall in the night.

But something cast silence upon the world.

Eyes blinking out of heavy sleep, Dr. Watson turned his head and peered out of the small opening in the hospital's shutters.

The stars were going out, one by one.

Heart in his dry throat, Watson huddled his arms around his sides and watched as the blackness took on a too-familiar form. It was large, hundreds of feet long, and as poisonous as the cigar it was shaped to resemble.

One cigar will only place one man's life at peril. This one would imperil thousands.


	16. Gathering Shadow

**London:**

Hopkins turned the key to his office and locked it with the enthusiasm of a man who hopes he can also lock away his mind with the same assurance. While he doubted either barrier was proof (they were still the antiquated Yale locks of his boyhood), the repetition of the movements soothed his troubled spirits.

Two suicides among the men in the past three days—both of them Old Guard. As far as these new Wartime recruits were going, he didn't think they would stay out of their own gaols for much longer. Drinking on duty wasn't the common evil of his constabulary youth, but there was a great deal more bullying.

It was a sad state of affairs when London could achieve peace and prosperity long enough that he would be surprised when one of their own died by self-murder.

Hopkins crossed to the doors of New Scotland Yard before pocketing his key; he paid for his absent-mindedness as he stepped outside. As he nodded his farewells to one of the old Constables the door closed in his wake and bumped his arm. His key jingled like a tiny bell down the steps and almost into the street.

"Bloomin'…" He cursed under his breath and instantly felt the heat flush up from behind his collar. A woman was standing on the street watching him scrabble.

A woman-police office. Hopkins wilted within his coat. He felt the steam of his neck against the starch of his collar.

Beg your pardon, ma'am." He touched his fingertips to his hatbrim, smiling like the boy caught upon the chocolate biscuits.

She smiled back, demurely as was proper. "Not at all, sir." She answered. "I thought you were talking to someone on the inside."

That was how the old guard spoke. Hopkins was reassured by the familiarity. "Stanley Hopkins, Miss. May I help you?"

The woman—_woman police officer_, he reminded himself—stepped closer under the blue lamp. "Forgive me sir, if I mayn't be too forward…but did you know my uncle, Mr. Gregory?"

Something fell into place within Hopkins' weary brain. "You are Miss Enid Cross?"

"Yes, sir." The short woman ducked her head slightly forward. "I am."

"I'm pleased to meet you at last." Hopkins found himself smiling. "Gregson said he saw you the other week…how long have you been with us? How is London treating you?" Behind the polite babble Hopkins was fully aware he was hiding his guilt at not paying earlier respects to one of the Old Boys' inheritors to the badge. Gregory hadn't deserved his retirement; the least he could have done was give the man a greeting and a bag of tea leaves.

"I've been wearing this uniform since it was founded," Miss Cross twisted her small mouth wryly. "Dear Old Uncle thought there should be some of the "old folks" joining up to keep an eye on the amateurs."

Hopkins chuckled. She was small but sturdy. Now that he saw her bright blonde hair, he wondered how he could have not known her as Gregory's family at first sight. No one else in the Yard had possessed the man's mane of yellow. "And he thought you would be good to volunteer?" He asked.

She shrugged lightly, a man's mannerism that slightly surprised him. "I've no family but the old Uncle, and when I was a tot I had a crying fit because no one would let me be a policeman. I even tried to cut my hair to pass as a boy." She had the air of someone who had told this story on herself for so long she never blushed about it now. Hopkins was the one who blushed, slightly. His sisters would cluck their tongues over this one. While they admired strong women, they weren't accustomed to seeing much strength outside their own family lines.

"But I was asking," she continued with the air of getting down to business, "if you mayn't have enough time in your schedule someday to see to my uncle. Someday."

Hopkins didn't know this, but this was quite a long speech for this woman. "Not at all. I missed his retirement party—down with a sprained ankle all the way past my knee—;" He sighed at a few embarrassing memories. "I'm free tonight, as it is. Will you be off duty soon?"

"I am off-duty now, Mr. Hopkins."

Hopkins didn't tell her to call him Stanley. As a friend of her uncle's, it would be too forward for their lives operated within the same field. "Shall we?" He smiled.

Ms. Cross walked quietly next to him in the dulled streets of London's curfew.

_OOOOO_

**The Downs:**

Channel wind rattled the tightly-fastened wooden shutters. The two men fell silent, listening to its patient circling about the house, looking for a way inside. Holmes' weather-glass, which decreed the state of the weather by forming delicate crystals under atmospheric pressure, collected rime inside the murky matrix. Lestrade didn't need the object—pretty though it was—for the forecast within his ageing bones.

Holmes blinked lazily, his grey eyes glittering over his world of books and art and mind-travel. After the peace of supper there was little to do save converse until they felt the need for sleep.

"One might advise you to be more careful, Lestrade." The retired detective drawled. "You are acting oddly according to your peers. Your constant checks of house and station are suggest paranoia. People are starting to talk."

"If I could explain to the world the case I was on that taught me to fear war in the air, I would." Lestrade answered with some heat. "But I cannot…no more than you can, Holmes."

Holmes grunted once; Lestrade sensed the man agreed with him. "For all the conclusion of the case, Lestrade, it did at least delay this war from coming. Britain needed time and that we could give them."

"It wasn't nearly enough, but yes. There was at that." Lestrade spun a circle of his drink in his fingertips. "Frightening case, though." He took a deep breath. "Why'd you do it?"

"I take a case for its interesting points, you kn—"

"Don't be daft." Lestrade broke in rudely, interrupting what was about to be another speech on 'interesting points' which the entire civilised world doubtless knew by heart now. "You turned down a knighthood! Why'd you say no?"

Grey eyebrows sloped upward like birds. "Heavens, Lestrade. A knighthood is more trouble than they're worth—and look who gets them!" He sniffed rudely and glanced away to the scrap of newspaper that had delivered that little titbit: a brief biography of Colonel Moran's father. "You must admit, a knighthood is a convenient way of getting rid of someone…give them their title and then put them on a post on the far end of the Empire…"

Lestrade almost choked on his drink. "You're dodging the point." He sighed. This always happened. Just when he thought he might have something dangerously close to a real conversation, Holmes would tip over the table and hide behind it.

Holmes' lips twitched. "A knighthood is a poor reward for doing one's duty, Lestrade. Would you take a knighthood were it offered?"

Lestrade laughed out loud. "That's the maddest thing you've come up with in all the years I've known you! That's dafter than England and the States joining up again!" He shook his head at last.

"I am serious, Lestrade."

Lestrade sobered instantly. "But you can't be!"

"Observe, Lestrade. I asked you a simple question."

The silence caught on a thorn and unraveled as it progressed. Lestrade sighed, his shoulders slumping.

"A knighthood would be a cruelty, Holmes. What would the likes of a plod be doing with a knighthood? I couldn't even put my own children through the schools of their choice. I had to find patrons for all of 'em." His own bitterness surprised him, perhaps because this was the first time he'd voiced it.

"The rich are constantly shoring each other up." Holmes murmured. "Not too differently from you and your neighbors helping one another."

"It's not the same, and you know it. I'd have to change my entire way of life…and pull my family in to be as miserable as myself. We'd be scorned by our old friends and neighbors, and scorned by our new peers. We wouldn't be one thing or another—save miserable."

"Give me credit then, Friend Lestrade, for knowing the cage has gilded bars. It is still a cage. A knighthood would mean the end of what little freedoms I possess."

Lestrade swallowed hard. Years ago he had witnessed the demons in the young man's head. Watson had done much to prevent the inevitable, but those monsters lurking in that amazing brain were the reasons for Holmes' retirement.

Holmes was not free from his demons, but he was free to choose how to live with them. In that, the older man had to concede that he was a very fortunate man.

_He's younger than I_, Lestrade thought_. Eleven years between us, yet it might be a thousand._

_Eleven years to come._

He didn't know why that memory from his smallest boyhood would emerge after decades, to alarm him at this moment. All he could think of was how that memory trapped him until it was finished with him. Eleven years to come. That was what the old trading-men out of Languedoc would curse at you if they thought you were slow and they had to repeat themselves: _if I told you once, I told you eleven years to come._

Eleven meant infinity.

Lestrade didn't completely understand what was happening at this slender minute of time in the strange man's house. He looked backwards in his mind, to his prime, and to his rawer days long before his marriage. He thought of his first shy attempts into the world…his green boyhood among giants without knowing he would ever outgrow their shadows.

It was too much for the likes of him to take in; what he could and did understand was this: That his host was eleven years his subordinate and yet he had the appearance and demeanor of being the elder.

Watson had warned him…warned the world when he published THE VALLEY OF FEAR, didn't he? …..desensitized…absorbed only in the problem.

It was a sad way to live, and yet who was being the harsher?

He was unsettled and somehow sad at his new insight. A man so much younger than he _shouldn't_ look so much older…shouldn't be so worn out and weary looking.

Holmes watched calmly as the smaller man rose to his feet and paced awkwardly within the confines of the crowded room of books. Much of his natural restlessness had been inspired by the physical need to keep moving; when he settled too long his injuries, particularly his twisted foot, rose up in complaint.

"I'm doing what I can, Holmes, but it isn't enough." Lestrade said at last. "I can barely sleep at night knowing where Martin is with his family. They're too close to too many targets: gasworks, the electrical plant, there's the bloody Big Ben! You can't tell me the Huns will turn down a target like that if it means crushing our spirit. They probably won't attack the palace, but then why would they bother? There isn't a single Royal in it right now."

"You know it isn't enough and yet you try." Holmes pointed out in his schoolmaster's voice. "You obviously find some small personal satisfaction in knowing you are doing something, correct?"

"Correct." Lestrade replied heavily. "But this is not enough."

"There was a time when I was arrogant enough to believe I could stop a war." Holmes continued that mild lecturing. "Merely because I had been able to prevent a most serious diplomatic incident twice in my past." He smoked reflectively. Lestrade was drawn into staring. "But my best efforts can only be seen as temporary. At least you and I have lived to see the death of our enmity with France."

"I hope you are right about that." Lestrade was saddened at the hope in his own voice. "It is ridiculous to think of a thin body of tidal water holding back two countries from each other's throats."

Holmes' lips twisted up. "I have ties with France too, Lestrade."

"You have ties with France; I have ties within France." Lestrade felt better now that he could correct the man on something. "But France will tell you that tie was British first."

Holmes chuckled—it was that sort of laugh that Watson swore meant trouble for someone else.

Neither man was aware of it, but the times in which they could speak and behave so calmly in each other's company were growing short.

_OOOOO_

Somewhere in France:

"Get the wire."

Watson hadn't meant to speak so sharply but apologies could come later. He was rumpled from his first decent nap in weeks; his hair was wild on his head and he felt completely naked without his uniform; a dressing-gown was only as imposing as the man who held it up. He wasn't aware that was plenty to go on.

The telegraph operator blinked eyelids glued from sleep and did not question his superior officer's alert at the slimmest hours of night—it wasn't even midnight, far too early for most forms of Hun mischief.

"Alert Headquarters." Watson was saying. His weather-browned face was set and tight, his eyes dark and hard. "I'm positive I saw a zeppelin headed to the Channel."

The other man blanched while the other exhausted me struggled to stay awake with coffee and reports.

Watson waited, unshorn, bare-footed and huddled inside a thin wool blanket over his shoulders while he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

_OOOOO_

**London, England: Home Office Detachment to Foreign Office:**

Nicholas Lestrade was tired to the bone. The big man paused as usual to smile at the brass-wired cage of tiny canaries in the foyer, and the little creatures hopped eagerly to a hand they associated with crumbs. Nick's smile grew. Out of sincere curiosity and the knowledge that he wouldn't hurt the tiny things, he had been feeding the canaries large amounts of red pepper. Their yellow wings were beginning to tinge with orange. He wondered if they would completely turn colour with the diet.

To discreetly hide the yawn behind his hand he stepped down the carpeted hallway of the Home Office's fourth floor. Despite his size he made no sound. He rarely did. Cheathams were large but graceful; Lestrades were small and absolutely confident in their step. He was both.

Tired as he was, it was unthinkable to leave the office before his brother. He wasn't happy about today; attempts to message Martin had been met with futility and while he knew Martin was busy he was growing angry at the sensation of being overlooked. Martin had hired him, hadn't he? Now that he was doing his job, who did he report to if Martin wasn't there?

Probably upset over the Johns, he thought charitably. The brothers had been perfect file clerks, but both had died with the _Lusitania_…now no one was certain where the confidential reports were kept. Martin had liked the men and gone out for drinks at the taverns on occasion. It could be that Martin was just withdrawn in his delayed mourning…

Nick stopped in the middle of the hall, uncertain about his next course of action. Something felt wrong. Something odd.

His father had always sworn there was nothing to "a feeling" or "being fey" it was just that he hadn't caught up to all the facts in his head yet.

_Men aren't psychic, Nick. But they have different layers of thought. The thoughts that get you through the day without thinking—like sharpening a pencil or looking both ways before crossing the street. That lets you have the rest of your head free for the important things like papers, writing letters, talking to people, being a part of the world. When a man gets a feeling that something's off, it just means there really is something off…and you don't know what it is yet. Go backwards in your head…clean out the desk in your brain and see what comes up._

Nick didn't have his brother's abnormal IQ, but he had a fine instinct.

Martin had stopped by _every evening_ since Nick started this job.

Martin had been looking more than troubled lately; he had looked lonely and a little sad.

Nick swore under his breath and slow-growing beard. He was the spitting image of his Uncle Bartram in that moment. Martin's childer weren't doing well; why hadn't he thought to ask Martin to bring them down for a visit? He didn't mind the little ones running about any more than his parents did. If Martin could get a good night's sleep without worrying about them…

Quietly as possible, Nick turned his heel on the deep carpet and padded his way to his brother's office. He was in sore need of his own sleep, but that was fast becoming a state of normality in London.

To be continued...


	17. Led by Jackasses

_OOOOO_

Nicholas Lestrade's first reaction to the heavy, closed door of oak gating Martin's office was profound hurt. Why hadn't his brother stopped by on his way home? The big man went further in his speculations, seeking some past crime against his sibling when his common sense told him he could just knock; Martin had closed many a door in his life in an attempt to study out a problem. He stepped over the silent softness of the carpet, hand lifted in the act of knocking.

Muffled voices came from the other side of door; voices that Nick shouldn't be hearing…and the tone of said voices…It was enough.

Nick kicked the door open with ridiculous ease; his father had always complained that anyone who knew doors wasn't in charge of designing them. The plank bounced off its hinge and struck the wall with a gunpowder bang. A gilt-framed bas-relief of the Egyptian Tyet fell to the carpet. Its razor-thin glass shattered like spiderwebs.

And the men were coming at him.

Nick was out of practice; it was quite possible he struck out too hard. He felt nasal bone crumple before his knuckles but it wasn't as bad as the sight of his brother swinging out in a Chausson kick and taking a man's ear clean off with the inner side of his shoe. A moment later he realised it was a false ear—odd, that—and he took his best warning scowl to the second man fumbling in his inner pocket.

Gun or knife, for some reason they hadn't pulled it on Martin just yet; their stupidity he supposed, or reluctance to bring down every man with a working ear. Nicholas saw red and picked up the man, swung him into the wall against the gas-jet. His face broke in a spray of blood against the silk wall-paper.

Martin had finished his swing to one direction and had whirled for another. He was built like his father and fought like him too—but Nicholas had never seen his father this angry.

His brother kicked as hard as he could into the man's chest, and he folded up like a wet rag; a knife spun like a Catherine wheel across the air and Nick didn't like the way the blade was black instead of polished metal. He let it fall to the carpet and didn't try to catch it.

"Nick…I think you killed that man." Martin whispered.

Nicholas snorted. "He was trying to kill you." He explained coldly. "I won't stand for that, big brother. And what of _him_? He looks dead to me."

Martin panted, trying to get his breath back. He was very pale and drawn. "I saw him heading for you." He confessed in a tiny voice.

"We'll explain it to the police." Nick wasn't going to worry about the abstract right now. "All we have to do is tell 'em your line of work and they'll let it all go. Two dead men aren't the worst they've ever seen."

"Actually it will be." Martin said heavily. He abruptly sank to his knees on the carpet. "These men were already dead. They were written down as lost on the _Lusitania_."

"The Johns brothers?" Nick asked sharply.

Martin only nodded. He was going into shock. "I thought we were friends."

_OOOOO_

Hopkins recognised the shape of the buildings in the fitful lamp-light. This was a forgotten three-minute walk perpendicular to the High Street; the blue lamp of the nearest police-station glowed softly in the rising fog against the red of a surgery's lantern, and the white of the usual lamps shone between. It was rare to see the streets so well that one saw more than two different colours upon the city.

"He'll be pleased to see you," Miss Cross assured him as she wiggled the iron key in the lock. Here the methods of security were out-dated, but he suspected there just wasn't that much need to keep up. A sideways glance about revealed the flutter of a dozen curtains and the wink of shutters. Everyone minded their own's business here, and they wanted to be certain their Young Enid was safe.

"Thank you, I am glad to have the chance to speak with him again." Hopkins admitted. "I'm afraid it's been too long."

"Well, he claims he can't remember what day of the week it is, but give him a single name and he'll tell you the cases it came up in!" She chuckled even though she looked a little wary for her less than perfect sentence. "In we go, Mr. Hopkins. I believe I hear the maid coming up from the back."

_OOOOO_

"_**Do not send more messages unless they are of importance regarding your medical needs."**_

The poor operator all but shrieked the words returned to them; disbelief tearing his throat as he jumped to his feet. A small Catholic cross hung from his wrist on a thin chain, swinging wildly from his motion. Watson had almost mesmerized himself with the anticipation of disaster. He jumped at the shrill notes of the wireless, but seconds later his heart moved from rising to hope…to sinking.

"_Vous êtes des lions conduits par des ânes!"_ The man finished with a choked scream. The ciphered paper was the result of painstaking codes and safety and protocols; returned in the same manner. Its efforts wasted, it ended crumpled to uselessness inside his fingers.

He had been placed upon the duties of communication once his skills with the major languages had been revealed. Watson recognized what he was saying without his knowledge of French. He had heard it before, years ago, over news of the Franco-Prussian War.

For the first time in his life, Watson swore in front of one of his own men. His heart throbbing in pain and horror, he whirled in his steps and thought of slamming the door in his wake. Common sense stopped him at the last moment (it always did).

He didn't need to wake the poor men that weren't on duty. Despite the luxury of roofs and clean linens and unspoilt food they were still half-dead and numb from exhaustion. He needed to speak to the men who were already awake…and prepare for the worst.

In his ears rang the final curse of the operator.

"_You are lions led by jackasses."_

_OOOOO_

"They must have taken the chance to fake their deaths…and they came back here for something."

Martin's colour had returned with a strong cup of coffee and brandy. He hadn't noticed that the coffee was hours old and ice-cold from sitting on the coldest side of his desk. Nick had put in a disproportionate amount of Tad's excellent Christmas gift into a cup of beans that were probably part wood-shavings, but Martin wouldn't have noticed if he was sipping on pencil soup in gaol. He nodded without saying a word but remained sitting on the carpet far away from the nearest dead man.

Nick tried again. He had locked the door and after a quarter-hour of no one trying to knock, it was clear they were the only ones in the building. Nick had even hung up the MEETING sign on the outer door to keep the charwoman out.

The question remaining was what to do about the Johns brothers.

"What were they wanting, Martin?" Nick whispered.

Martin roused himself slowly. "Those plates." He said hoarsely. "Those lithographic plates you were studying."

"Why is that?" Nick persisted, but he was being foolish. "Because of the images on the plates?"

"They're major cities of Europe…landscapes…panoramas…the detailing's finer than what's on a photograph; lines are sharper than blurry greys of photographs. Someone wanted the images very badly, Nick."

"Strong enough to kill you for them."

"They weren't going to kill me." Martin choked. "They were going to take me with them."

Nick saw red. "And you're sorry they're dead?" He asked _very_ quietly.

"You can't get information out of a dead man." Martin sounded as though he needed to convince himself.

"They'd be wanting the original plates." Nick rubbed at his new beard. "Even a good print can miss a line or two out of true. But…" He gnawed his lip. "They're heavy bastards. Are they still in the warehouse?"

"No, they've been moved to the basement safe…"

"We can't keep them in here. What can we do? If we call in a policeman it gets Tad's people involved in government, and they'll give whoever the constable is his walking papers."

"I know." Martin said harshly. "And Tad's off in Scotland! I don't know who to talk to that we could trust!"

"How long will he be over there?"

"God knows." Martin swallowed. He was beginning to look sick. "We just killed two men." He remembered all over again.

"They were going to do a good sight better than that with us." Nick pointed out. "We have a right to defend our people, you know." It didn't bother him at all. Not when he saw death headed for his brother. Nick would have stopped that knife with his own heart if that had been the only choice.

Martin looked up at him, and he looked as old as their father. He looked just like their father in that moment, just lacking the white about the chops. His blue-black eyes glimmered. "Thank you." He whispered.

"Fine, but if you ever do something that stupid for me, I'll thrash _you_ and your Missus will hold you down for it." Nick sniffed to lighten his mood because the sight of his brother looking like their Tad was achingly sad. "Now _start thinking_," he chided. "Are we going to hide them for someone else to find? And if so, how?"

Martin stopped. He stared out the window of his office.

"What's wrong?" Nicholas snapped. Just luck if Martin was going to wander off in his head from shock.

"I don't think we'll have trouble hiding them, Nick." Martin's voice was strangled. He swallowed hard. "Oh, Tripledie."

Heart pounding in a new fear, Nick stepped behind his smaller brother and looked out. He gasped.

_OOOOO_

The steam whistles shrilled long and low, a high pitch denoting the shift in air pressure as the train left the damper air of the coast and approached London's outskirts.

Superintendent Lestrade watched the dull outlines flit across the smudged glass; his own eyes looked back at him, tired and a little defeated. An unplanned sleep on the way over had made theft of his attempts to think. He felt confused and stupid—not an uncommon feeling when one spent more than ten minutes in the company of Sherlock Holmes, but both men agreed that their original plans for his overnight stay must needs be shelved. There were too many things happening in the world and especially with their responsibilities.

He'd wanted to be wrong about his suspicions with Mrs. Watson. He had hoped from the beginning of his journey with Roger all the way to the Downs that Holmes would look upon him with that too-familiar lift of the head and curl of the lip, and that frosty glitter of a metal-grey eye, and say:

"_It is obvious to a blind man you are imagining things, Lestrade. For years you resisted all attempts at imagination and now you choose the worst possible time to discover this aspect of yourself. Too late, my good man! Too late! Best you scrap your feeble attempts and return to your plodding lines. The good Mrs. Watson is perfectly safe from spies."_

It had been a nice fantasy.

In the end, the only thing he had conjured correctly in his mind was the physical attitude of Holmes. The words had nearly crushed him for the weight of their truth:

"_You have your facts, Lestrade. Someone is indeed spying on Watson's wife. Perhaps even their children. But to what purpose? Ah, that is the question."_

"_How can you be so cold and calm about it?" Lestrade had never lifted his voice to a gentleman in his life; he still couldn't believe he had. "This is Watson, your friend!"_

"_And yours too, which is why you are lashing out completely out of character." Holmes' thin eyelids drooped to a half-closed position. Lestrade could see the milky-blue lines of vein spidering across the paleness of his face, his temples, his brow and about his eye. For a moment the thin mouth twitched—in thought, which shocked Lestrade further. He'd been willing to bet anything from that mouth would be an expression of cruelty against whatever flaws Mr. Holmes cared to magnify with the precision of his microscope-mind._

"_Be calm, Lestrade," Holmes' voice dropped further than his lids, and his long fingers steepled up to rest, tip to tip, against each other over his buttoned breast. It was a terrible moment for its enlightenment. Lestrade was paralysed with the realisation that the other man, who was more than a decade his junior, was many, many more years ahead of him in age._

_This is wrong, he thought in the blistering heat of this knowledge. This is very wrong. I'm a generation on him. He shouldn't look so old._

_Was it the cocaine?—it was the reason for his retirement after all. Or was it his endless bowls of tobacco?—necessary if a man was terrified of going soft from fine food and drink. The hours of sacrificed sleep must surely add up to entire decades; the neglected body that had been through even more neglect as it lived for years not as Sherlock Holmes but as Sigerson or whoever that damned Irishman was supposed to be in America…._

"_Mrs. Watson is safe." Holmes murmured, riding athwart Lestrade's mental tracks. "They would not be so foolish as to frighten the daughter of an Army Colonel—much less such a famously ferocious Army Colonel! No, they would wonder too much about hidden connexions. Hidden lines of communication. They will do nothing more than watch her, and leave her wondering."_

"_It isn't right." Lestrade blurted from the venomous mixture of frustration and injustice. "It's all about those damned gemstones, isn't it?" He struck his thigh with his fist. "I should have destroyed them when I had the chance."_

"_What you did with them was your own decision, not any other man's." Holmes drawled. For a terrible moment he sounded as though he were back in the grip of the drug. "And there is no sense in self-flagellation."_

Even now, Lestrade had the urge to gnash his teeth. Self-flagellation. Worthless advice if the man giving it couldn't follow it for himself! The one and only thing that made the bitter gall of Sherlock Holmes' condemnatory advice palatable to any policeman was the knowledge that he never spoke out on another man as harshly as he did to himself. Yet again, Lestrade silently thanked whatever angels were in charge of looking out for the Dr. Watsons of the world. Each and every one of them.

His troubled thoughts were interrupted by the jolt of the train; this late at night it was less than half-full (a fortunate side-effect of the curfews). Nevertheless he heard a baby's startled wail on the other side of the dividing partition, and raised adult voices. The train jolted again; he felt it in his spine and reached for his hat.

His head joined the forest of others in the rib-thin walk. Quickly donning his bowler and making certain his rank was on his sleeve, Lestrade stepped to the outside of the car with the cool polish of a man seeking a smoke. Behind him in the very first of the car, he could hear rising sounds of panic.

_Dear God, no._ A second later his stern childhood reasserted himself. Not God, God was busy. A woman was praying to Mary and he silently added his wishes to hers. Who else? Brigid. Brigid was the Midwife to Christ; she would know the fears of parents for children.

Outside the whistling wind as the train braked, and braked again—anything to keep from stopping inside the city of London, Lestrade could see the dull, sooty outline and smears of the city he loved and called home. His heart rose within his throat and burnt itself to ash, scalding him against the ability to speak.

Below the rising screams of London—a mile away and he could hear the screams—the factories were shrieking; the churches belling-the skies were filled with slow-dropping beams of infernal light. Within the hot glare of the brightest thing he'd ever seen outside the sun…cold metal coffins drifted down.

_OOOOO_

Below their weight in the south of the city, W. G. Grace, a fiercely bearded old man who never blinked in the face of any opposition, lifted his fist to heaven and cursed at the Germans.


	18. The Definition of Insanity, Part I

**The Definition of Insanity**

This is a partial flashback to the past, in which events lead up to the "present" in war-time London. Hopefully this will not be too confusing.

**Spring, 1883, London:**

Gregson didn't _mind_ Stanley Hopkins.

This in itself was an unusual thing. Gregson tended to ignore only a small, specific category, and as Young Hopkins (Fresh from Cambridgeshire), was neither mentally deficit, or theologically bankrupt, or an atheist, or a drunkard, the Yard did wonder what the lad possessed that allowed the always-tetchy-Gregson the luxury of overlooking the newcomer's shortcomings.

**Fact: newcomers had flaws; they had **_**shortcomings**_**, (like everyone else), but they had more shortcomings than the seasoned veterans**. It was just a matter of time before the lot proved themselves to be sand or salt. Once in a great while—'in a bloody blue badger's moon,' to quote the over-stressed Inspector Morton—you could just look at a man and know which he was.

With Hopkins no one doubted he was salt over the sand. Of course a lot of them hated him for it. No one likes to be reminded of their own flaws and how close they squeaked by the basic exams, and how hard they worked…and nothing reminded the former green coppers like looking into the tight-jawed Crane from the South and seeing the next generation's perfect son.

And Hopkins was _damned_ perfect. He was perfect enough to inspire nausea and Inspector Morris swore the Milk of Magnesia purchases increased at every chemist shop between the Yard and the Thames. Increasing the sheer infuriating-ness of the man, he was utterly unaware of it. He actually thought everyone was as smart as he was, and he didn't rub his smarts into the faces of his companions because he thought it was all just a part of the game they played with the newcomers.

Under normal circumstances, Hopkins was the sort of man Gregson ate for breakfast. Yet there was something deucedly un-normal about the circumstances because for some reason, Gregson didn't even get bothered at Hopkins.

Gregson grew to _like_ Hopkins, though he didn't admit to affection for most people. Affection required effort that he might need later in pursuit of his duties. Still, there was something about Hopkins that a fellow had to respect. He'd risen in ranks on his own weight, quietly finding his own way without asking for favors or sympathy. Having been there themselves, the older men recognized their own will within the milk-chinned youth who mended his own clothes and walked before taking a cab.

**Summer, 1884, London:**

"He has the sense to be clean-shaven." Lestrade said once, during one of their rare moments of peace at the _Malmsey-Keg_. Not that they were allowed to actually brawl in the neutral grounds of the tavern, but if they had a problem to chew over together the odds of blatant antagonism were reduced.

Gregson squinted at his rival over the smeary rim of his glass. "I didn't think sense had anything to do with you," he accused. "Aren't Bretons usually bald about the chops?"

Lestrade's expression was a mixture of disgust, astonishment, and cheap white wine. "I just never got into the habit of growing a beard unless I was CID." He protested. Even to himself, it was weak.

"*huh.*" Gregson grunted. "If you say so."

"I do say so, and it takes just one time—just one—!" Lestrade leveled his Doom Finger over the table and wagged it at Gregson: "example of seeing a man getting yanked into a broken nose against a knee-cap because his moustaches made perfect grips." He shuddered, rolled his eyes, and reached for his wine-glass. "Ridiculous, but I know there are too many nights where all that hair is what keeps you warm above the collar."

"That's what scarves are for too." Gregson pointed out. "And as long as the Royals are wearing all that fancy stuff on their faces, that's what people will wear."

Lestrade made a strange sound that could have meant just about anything, and clutched his wine closer. "He's bright," Was the verdict. "But he's working too hard to pretend he isn't working too hard to keep himself together."

"It'll fool some of 'em," Gregson shrugged. "He doesn't complain and that's important. If he doesn't burn himself to the ground in a few years, he'll make a decent officer." Despite the unspeakable rudeness of the gesture, he pulled out a penny-knife and used it to clean his nails at the table.

"I don't think he dares complain. Not about anything." Lestrade protested. "Just look where he's from."

Gregson nodded his silent agreement. Hopkins was a pure south-easterner, a Crane straight from the mucky Fens, and desperate to keep his rural roots from showing. "He tries too hard." He said again, which was a return to the old topic. "Made a mistake just the other day, mentioned watching the Easter Stoolball games."

Lestrade grimaced. Stoolball was more than the rural and ancestral cricket-game; priests annually demanded its ban on grounds that it was a pre-Christian fertility rite (Lestrade wasn't the only weary copper who made the grueling effort to make it to church, only to wonder why he had bothered because if he wanted to listen to foam-flecked rants, he could get it whilst on duty at just about any crossroads at London).

The South East areas were probably the last places where the sport was still played with enthusiasm. Hopkins was that unfortunate breed of man who had to grow up in a predominantly female household—the lone male in a sea of aunts, sisters, one mother, two grandmothers and a spectacularly infinite number of cousins. A _faux pas_ or three was bloody inevitable with the man, and give him credit for surviving with something of his male humanity intact. But hadn't been wearing the uniform long enough to know that the topic of stoolball (or stobball) was fine conversation for his peers—just not something to discuss where his superiors (Gregson) could hear.

"Are you going to tell him?" The smaller man wanted to know.

"Might." Gregson muttered.

"Might? When have you hesitated to tell anyone they've made a mistake?" Lestrade almost drawled his sardony. Gregson flushed slightly.

"Well, I'm waiting to see if he mentions it again. Otherwise, I won't have to. Anyway, he's from the South, and most people will overlook his ways."

"Good heavens, Gregson! Anything two inches under Birmingham is "south" in England! _London_ is South!"

"Huh. You're a real wit when you try to be."

Lestrade's eyes had an interesting ability to narrow into slits of deepest gloom when he was trying to decide if all this was Gregson's plot to pick a fight or not, and if so, should he respond to the bait or wait to see how much more deeply Gregson would go?

Gregson was well used to and inured of that expression, but it did scare a lot of people who had been calmly minding their own business, only to look up to see a small, chisel-sharp little man dressed to the nines glowering at a beefy brawler of a man with all the absorption of a butcher faced with a questionable carcass: _Retail or cat's-meat?_

"You're going to have to talk to him anyway," Lestrade said at last. Gregson was mildly disappointed that the runt had chosen his usual path of least resistance: Pointing out the obvious. "It's clear he favours your counsel, and he thinks like you. Poor sot."

"You praise with false damns." Gregson said lightly, and to the relief of everyone within sight, he traded his knife for his drink. The patrons were mostly coppers, and no one liked that combination of Lestrade's expression at the same table as Gregson's holding a weapon.

It was high time he threw Lestrade another punch. Gregson sipped his dark ale and grinned. "So when are you going to find a _protégé_?"

Lestrade was thrown sideways at that question—as Gregson had intended. "A what?" He stared.

"A _protégé_. You know. Some poor, soft-brained clot who needs upstanding direction and wisdom—but with you they'll have to settle for cheap witticisms." Gregson took another drink.

Lestrade's eyes had ballooned up with initial astonishment, but the helium was fast leaking out of the orbs into their previous flattened state. Gregson watched in fascination, wondering for the thousandth time if Mr. Holmes provoked him for the same entertainment. It was definitely finest kind, and the amateur could resist poking no more than a cat could resist a ball of wool.

"Very funny, Gregson." Lestrade said at last. He stood, and to Gregson's surprise, drained his glass and slammed it empty upon the plank. He was out the door before the big man could finish blinking.

Gregson did wonder what he'd done to upset the Runt, but he didn't wonder for long. Lestrade was as sensitive as a soft-mouthed horse. It wasn't important in the long run.

**Early June, London, 1913:**

Mrs. Stanley Hopkins was dead.

Gregson tried, his brain grumbling with the very effort, but he couldn't at the moment recall the poor woman's Christian name. He could only think of the fond nick-name of her grieving husband. "Dove" was nice enough and in these modern times it was even common for a woman as much as a man. But it bothered Gregson that he couldn't recall the poor woman's first name. She'd brought two Hopkins-daughters into the world, and raised them well and vibrant until her own fate was cast down as swift and shocking as the Reaper's Scythe.

"She just had a weak heart." Mrs. Bradstreet lifted her hands, palms supine, into the air. "A weak heart no one knew about."

"How could _that_ woman, of all people, have a weak heart? She delivered Parthena and Rufina…and each time she was up sweeping the floors and baking bread within eighteen hours!" He didn't mention the son who had died at birth; he didn't have to. They all knew about it. If he thought about it, he would remember the child's name, but he didn't want to remember.

Mrs. Bradstreet—Gregson was still chary of calling her the plebian "Hazel" after having worked beneath the heavy iron mantle of her father "Basilisk" Roane—simply looked at him with a blend of sympathy and silent wisdom. "You can have a weak heart without knowing it, you know." It was said so gently he couldn't take offense, and he tried to.

One wife, three children, and two graves. Gregson knew Hopkins was hoping for some sort of comfort with him, and it made him angry. Being a _protégé's_ mentor was all fuss and feathers. The daughters were still there. Married young in the custom of the country, and grandchildren already there—one even on the way with Parthena-but Gregson fuzzily understood that was natural as the daughters had spent every one of their summers with their cousins outside the fens in the fresh air and sunshine. The countrified sort made up their minds swiftly and surely, found their mates and created their own lives. It was no stretch of the mind to know that the country was a more palatable world than that of London, with its greasy yellow fog, its yellow-tinged citizens, and its darkness.

Gregson was one of the few policemen to achieve rank as a native son of London, for the policy preferred to hire outsiders who had not been corrupted from the existing crime of the city. He took natural pride in being unique, and knew he was a model…but there were times when he would gladly give up the responsibility.

**Gregson Residence, June, 1913:**

"Oh, heavens."

The wire always seemed to arrive at what Mr. George (Desk-Sergeant late of Division H) called the "Bloody-Dawn," as if dawn could ever strike _London_ through her fog. Gregson all but killed himself in the murky walk between the door of his rooms and the ground floor steps. The world was not only glazed with paper-thin ice, it was masked within the slimy yellow fog to keep one from seeing the menace from what it really was.

Worsening matters was the fact the nit-witted messenger boy was still there with the silly telegraph envelope, and not the least bit affected that his recipient was standing under the carved stone lion above the door with a spot of shaving-cream still on his chin and a wetly-gleaming razor clenched in his left hand (Gregson had learnt quite by accident that an occasional emergence to the street's view of his visage in this way was an excellent way of gathering just the sort of reputation he liked among the lower elements).

Gregson made a point of snatching the paper with overmuch strength and slapped out the tip. Once the reformed street Arab was off and running into the swirls of freezing fog, he was alone and it was safe to slit the top up.

One glance and he groaned aloud in the sooty dark. His hip banged the door shut; the lock set from the impact. He despised the sensation of blinking sleep-padded eyelids against the waking world as much as he despised his wire's point of origin-Lestrade, of all people, had chosen to send him this note.

Just like Lestrade to use words like _that_ in his missives. Thank God and John Wesley he never did it on purpose. Behind him he could hear the soft foot-falls of his wife slipping up to rest her narrow hands on his broad back.

There was a time when his back had been nothing but muscle, but a layer of fat padded out those tissues now, and while his strength had not appreciably decreased in his years, there were times he felt faded and rubbed thin.

"I've got to go, Pet." The ageing detective stopped for a moment to lean his hard-skinned forehead against the soft scent of his wife's still-gleaming auburn locks. Thin wires of pure silver and platinum wove through those curls; a promise of things to come…not the tiresome protest against the inevitable age…no, Gregson took pride in knowing he'd married a wife who scorned false modesty. Her silver would be proof of her strength and her years, not her shame. He had every faith she would bury him, what with his family's history of brittle-bone1 and cold allergy. "It's Hopkins. He went off to the Cambridge Marshes after the funeral and it sounds as though Lestrade's worried."

Mrs. Gregson frowned slightly, her glorious eyes dark as wood-violets in the sad hissing light of the hallway. She couldn't talk but never needed speech. Gregson always knew what she was thinking—not an always happy arrangement on his part, for she was not above pretending incomprehension to what he said when she felt he was being particularly thorny.

"It is duty." He assured her, for he could read the cipher underneath the painfully blunt wording of the wire. "I don't _think_ he'd be so foolish as to hie off without permission—he's still feeling that broken arm and anyway, Lestrade would have said _something_." At her doubtful pinch of eyebrows he shrugged helplessly. "I'll get a bit to eat and head off, dearest." His lips pressed against the thin paper-pale skin of her brow and he felt the whisk of her lashes against his chin. "I'll send you a wire," he promised. A telephone was hardly practical for a dumb woman.2

Mrs. Gregson's thin fingers, bird-boned beneath her yellowed skin, pressed against the tender flesh of his wrists as she squeezed. There were many ways of speaking. Language was a delicate art. He handled the coarse parts, but she was mistress of the other.

"You make good and sure our Toby finishes up his work with the boxes, eh?" He said with a knowing smile. They did love their adopted son, but they knew he was no better than his chosen parents when it came to dealing with large, stiff rectangles of pasteboard. Still, it was a simple chore worth a few pence at a time. Toby would be sleeping in this early hour; best he keep on his slumbering as Gregson prepared to leave. If he woke up to find himself the man of the house he would be even more disposed to watch over his adopted mother.

**ADLEBROOK**

**LAMPS STOP**

**HOB IN MARSHES**

**STOP**

"Adlebrook." Gregson muttered to himself.

The train rattled on with poor grace and increasingly battered rails. Gregson held the wire up in his mind and parsed it through. **Adle**—referred to a stagnant body of foul-smelling water. **Brook**—well, that was a given. It didn't sound like he was headed to a pleasant place.

There were few examples in Gregson's experience which stated he would come to the call of Lestrade—the man was his inferior and they both knew it. Gregson was magnanimous for the most part…he kept the gloating of his higher intellect away from Lestrade unless he felt like the man needed a pin in his balloon. The fact that Lestrade challenged his authority less then one out of three times only proved he was the lesser of the two.

If Hopkins (Hob) was in the marshes…that meant the fen. And being the fen…Gregson sighed and grumbled and paged through his train-book with reluctant fingers. Ely. Train-stop at Ely. Adlebrook was right there on the map, yclept to one of the many little feeder-streams that fed the marshes. He ought to have recalled that without looking it up. Bad enough his body was failing with his successive years; his mind was clearly in a race with the final end. In a gloom the big man snapped the book shut. He did not particularly care for low-lands and wet, soggy ground. Marshes, fens, canal-lands and locks and lochs and places with too much water just reminded him of the sentiment stirred whenever he heard a Hollander mutter about being born in the land of aches, agues, pains, plagues, carnivorous insects and rheumatism.

He rubbed at his face; wished fatigue could be erased as well as soot. Three days of unending work and sleeping in his office might have concluded a sticky case against the Saffron Hills Families,3 but his promotion remained tantalizingly out of reach. Gregson had struggled up the ranks for most of his life—you could only go up or out—and although he had ten years less than Lestrade, retirement was no further for him. He wanted to retire with more decorations on his sleeve and that was a fact. Perhaps he should think positively. The reward for the case had been in time off…may as well spend the time wisely. Hopkins, dare he say it, tended to be one of the recurring loose ends in Gregson's life and it would keep him busy.

The man was in a string of bad luck; that was that. Breaking his arm in that train-wreck off Dover (he'd survived, which was more than two people could say), it had been his writing hand and circumstances grudgingly allowed him time on partial-pay since it had been on police business at the time. But the plaster had barely set about his arm when his daughters sent a frantic wire from Cambridgeshire about their mother. She'd merely been on a visit to her parents, and that morning had simply failed to wake up.

Gregson shuddered to think of Hopkins' reaction. They'd witnessed his miserable courtship against in-laws who'd delayed his marriage a good three years before giving grudging permission. That would have been three years more he could have had with Dove.

All around him people were jostling about the train and chattering like magpies over the Treaty of London. Much as Gregson prayed the treaty really _did_ mean the end to the Balkan War…he hoped it would end neatly, and they wouldn't ever have to go through this again. The parties had been stationed in London since December, for the love of Heaven.

He bought a fresh newspaper for the evening on the half-way mark between London and Cambridge. Rather too much of it was devoted to the new American President, and Gregson's Norman sensibilities were dulled on the worth of anyone as common as Wilson. On the other side of the coin, the world was still trumpeting the 300 year anniversary of the Romanov Dynasty. A three-month long campaign of Russian monarchism was a bit much, but Gregson's suspicious nature couldn't help think the excessive celebration was hiding something darker underneath. He was a Monarchist himself, but he was English and he knew the better the parties, the poorer the administration.

Several miles down the rails, he found a tiny, almost forgettable paragraph on the fourth page of the front section. His heart sank with his hopes for an end to the Balkan War. It looked as though a new one would be on its way before long.

Glum against the inevitable stupidity of Man, the ageing policeman stopped reading and folded his paper into his lap. He rested his hands over the blur of print and stared with a disapproving expression out the thin glass windows.

The train shrilled its warning entrance to the station, and Gregson was glad of the break out of his thoughts. Without a case to fret over he was at odds. He gathered his bag and paper and parted ways with his car as fast as discretion allowed.

The station was riddled with repair-work. He sneezed at a cloud of brick-dust and hoped dearly it wouldn't stick to his coat. Men, women and children bumped against him as they traded places on the platform—Gregson tried not to notice the number of children who were clearly going to work in some factory somewhere, years ahead of their legal schedule.

"Hoy! Gregson!"

Gregson turned slowly, a familiar face of exasperation already donned as Lestrade hammered his way through the crowd. Gregson snorted. The day he stopped being amused at the runt's feckless insanity in crowd-navigation was the day they buried him. Gregson was big enough and PRESENCE enough that he never had to worry about moving unscathed. He simply carried on as placidly as a summer walk to Sunday School, and let people flow around lest they crash against him. He let them choose which; he was big enough.

Possibly if Lestrade had been able to reach Gregson's size, he might have been the same way, but Gregson doubted it. Nature had, with the best of intentions, attempted to make up for Lestrade's slight physical presence with an overabundance of energy. The disastrous result was an over-charged battery, a dynamo three sizes too small for its output.

Whoever felt Nature didn't make mistakes had clearly never met Lestrade.

Gregson could track him easily as he dipped, slipped, spun around, and nipped around everyone in his path. Some people were actually aware there was someone in their peripheral, but he was gone before they could finish registering.

"Got your constitutional in, did you?" Gregson said by way of greeting as Lestrade panted to his side.

"You're quite…droll." Lestrade breathed.

"What happened?" Gregson opened the conversation between two polite men with his usual tact—it wasn't like Lestrade was a gentleman and worthy the sort of attention the gentry had…the sort that had to hear the pretty words and empty flatteries.

Lestrade looked as though he'd aged thirty years in a few days. His neat hair was no longer so neat; his colour was off and he held his head slightly to one side as if his ear bothered him. Gregson was interested in the unsettled incongruence of his eyes. They were two in number, dark as the emptiness between the stars, and cushioned with a horrible plum-coloured sleepless pillow just over the apple of each cheek.

"Not much at first," Lestrade answered just as bluntly, and concentrated on pushing his smaller form through the un-coordinated mess of the people moving in and out of the train. "I knew Hopkins was over here tending to the burial, and that the Office thought he might as well since he was still on recuperation." Gregson nodded his understanding.

Lestrade nimbly skipped aside a push-cart full of loose cobbles. He swept a coin of low value to a child and collected a small paper bag for his troubles. Gregson groaned as he caught the odoure of a freshly-baked tansy-cake. Extra bitter, of course. Some men were allergic to cold, some to strawberries…some to cinnamon. Lestrade was mentally allergic to sweets and woe betide the unwary guest who accepted his crippled hospitality. Even his honey, comb-cut from chestnut groves, was bitter.

As fast as was decent, he had it all gulped down and was rinsing his gullet with his tea-can. "I was supposed to meet up with him two days ago at the Wicken Inn." He stopped with his usual speed, and only years of practice kept Gregson from running straight into him. He nipped to the left and to a public well, where he filled up his canteen. "He didn't show up until two hours after our agreed-on time. Almost didn't know him. I don't think he's slept, and his daughters had to leave with their husbands…he's pretty much all by himself right now and it doesn't suit him."

"Hell." Gregson whispered. "Where's he now?"

"I left him at the fens." Lestrade took a deep breath. He was standing with his weight on his right foot; that meant he was dog-tired. Normally Lestrade would serve his own fingers in horseradish before admitting to Gregson he was infirm in any way. "If you haven't eaten, I suggest you do it now. There isn't much of anything out there. I'm about to buy whatever's available, and you can help me get it down his gullet."

"That bad, eh?" Gregson followed Lestrade to the cluster of cheap wooden buildings on the other side of the ticket booth. A string of market-stalls had been set up hastily, no doubt to profit from the hunger of imported carpenters and brick-layers.

They held back on discussion as the finer points of purchase occurred. Lestrade cobbled together a collection of sandwiches that were probably safe for consumption, but gave in to the sense of his childhood and stocked up on wedges of some sort of waxed yellow cheese and dried strawberries with a tough-looking loaf of bread. Gregson guessed the cheese was safer than the sandwiches, and the fruit was most likely local.

"If it's too tough we can soak it with the milk." Lestrade muttered gloomily, in reference to a small can in his left hand.

"If it's too tough we can chivvy Hopkins into a game of rugby." Gregson tried to joke.

Something like panic flared in Lestrade's face before it was stifled.

"You don't know how to play, do you." Gregson accused.

"Well…no." Lestrade tried to look elsewhere—anywhere but at Gregson.

Gregson bit back a curse. There were a lot of things about Lestrade that was more British than English, and this was just one of many examples. "It's easy. You grab the loaf of bread and try to keep it from the enemy while you run to the goal."

"That doesn't sound right." Lestrade scowled as they started walking down the road—well, walking for Gregson, limping for Lestrade.

"How would _you_ know?"

"For one thing, _you_ said it. For another, that's a game I know well, only we called it something else."

"Oh? What?"

"French and Prussians." Lestrade said ominously. "That was it for the rules."

"Got hurt a lot, eh?"

"Me? No."

"That does explain your gift for getting through a crowd."

"Eh?"

"Nothing." Gregson said, knowing that would get Lestrade madder than any accusation. "Is there a reason why you thought I should be called?"

"You're the only one off duty right now who isn't invalided."

"Fair enough, but what about you?"

"I'm invalided." Lestrade's lips were tight as the iron bands holding tight the whiskey-barrels. "They told me to take time off until the ringing in my head goes away."

"Now how did that happen? Did you get conkered again?"

"No, it was compression off a passing bullet. Private case for the pampered house-cats up at the Home Office." Lestrade answered icily. Gregson was oddly disappointed to realise Lestrade's entertaining level of aggravation had to do with his status, and not the presence of Gregson. "And it's over and done with. The Crow at the station said it should be over with in a day or so, and I'll be damned if I go home to the Missus like this—she'll make my head ring for real! So I stopped by on my way back to London to see how Hopkins was doing…and, well…" His voice trailed off. "He's not doing well."

"It would seem not." Gregson wiped at his face. He could feel the unpleasantness of the rail's soot against his skin and his rising temperature with exercise. "How far are we walking?"

"Not far…I rented a horse."

"Of course you did." Gregson groaned. He decided to run game with it, and washed the black off his face in the water-pump while Lestrade collected the horse (a roughly-spotted skewbald4 monster) and slung the provisions into empty saddle-bags. At last the runt mounted and extended his hand down, and Gregson swung up behind him. "It's a good thing the weather's soft down here."

"It'll be this way another three days if I'm going by the Almanack and my twice-broken bones." Lestrade shot back. His shoulders were hunched tight with the strain of simple existence with a ringing head. Up this close, Gregson could see a new proliferation of grey at his temples. He turned the horse with his heels, and the beast took them heavily down the road.

Gregson kept his mouth shut on the easy pretext of staying on board this erratic land-ship. If Lestrade, who fretted about appearances this much, was willing to sacrifice it all for expediency, Hopkins really was in a bad way.

The Fens revealed themselves without hesitation: thin smooth lines of dark blue-green against the lighter lime colour of the late spring fields. The only trees were shrubs—buckthorns and the wide-leaved willow called sallows. These were scattered and seldom, struggling to keep their feet in what firm earth they could find. The lodes of water ran slowly through the sedge, rocking flat lily pads. The wind changed direction and the dry dust of the rail-yard drifted away, leaving the scent of sun-warmed water and peat and growing things. It was slightly ripe but pleasant for the Londoner. Birds fluttered from pool to pool and frogs muttered in the shady areas. Here and there they passed choppy areas where the thatchers had cut out the dead reeds of winter for roofing.

Water rippled hastily away from the trod of the horse. "Plenty of fishing here?" Gregson wondered. He was no better than any city man at the prospect of a fresh-caught supper over the coals.

"I'd be careful about taking the eels here." Lestrade grumbled. "The pastor at the church filled my ears with slimy monsters that could swallow down whole rats."

"Too much eel for me. Remember that brute those boys fished out of the Thames back in…Damn, years ago. Five yards if it was an inch."

"Put me off eating eels a bit." Lestrade admitted. "But I don't want to think of something that can take on a water-rat and win."

"That would be two of us. Hopkins grew up in a bit of a wild place, didn't he?"

"Wild isn't the word for it." Lestrade glared at a clump of green things. "There's enough water parsnip to kill off East of Aldgate."

"That'd take a bloody lot of poison."

Lestrade abruptly muttered an oath and hopped down without warning—sending Gregson into a few oaths of his own. Growling and shaking his head as if a swarm of bees had set up summer housing, the smaller man passed the reins to Gregson and started stamping down the road, caring not a whit for the dust collecting in his spats.

"Just how close did that bullet pass your head?" Gregson wanted to know.

"How would I know? We never found it!" Lestrade growled some more at length, and sliced the air with his hand to a low-lying slate chapel that was just big enough for a bell. "Go on ahead if you want to. Hopkins is on the other side of the churchyard. The minister is letting him camp out."

"Camp out?" Gregson was alarmed. Mild as the weather was in comparison to London, camping was a bit much.

Lestrade proved he did not always take the high path in their conversations. He reached up and slapped the horse's rump just enough to inspire it trot forward. Gregson snarled over his shoulder at his vanishing enemy, but Lestrade ruined the effort by being unaware of it. He was yanking his bowler off his head and scrubbing his fingers through his hair, glaring at the dusty path.

Gregson grumbled under his breath, and was glad Lestrade wasn't showing signs of a concussion—they all knew the signs by heart.

Fine. He would likely be doing the Runt a favour by leaving him to his misery. Gregson set his jaw, sent a quick prayer up for the weather to stay warm, and approached the graveyard.

1 osteoporosis

2 Gregson was condescending by nature, but this is not a condescending phrase to his day, when "dumb" was still known as a pre-1000 AD word that referred ONLY to those who were unable to speak. If Mrs. Gregson had never been taught to speak, she would have been called a MUTE.

3 Families = organised crime

4 British term for pinto


	19. The Definition of Insanity, Part II

**London, 1915:**

Stanley Hopkins knew his head hurt. Unfortunately, he couldn't seem to think further than this fact. Even the pain against his skull-bones had a separated intelligence removed from his slow thoughts.

He waited. Patient was how he was supposed to act in performance of his duties—the joke was pointing out to the new copper that the uniform, once donned, never, ever came off. Its spectral form haunted the very skin until the day one dropped dead. Even retired police swore this was true.

"_If you can breathe, you're alive. _

_If you're alive, you're fine _

_and things are fine, _

_and you'll get the case finished—_

_-just fine."_

Gregson had told him this years ago, when he'd first been saddled with one of the more frightening men in the building. Big, bluff, tow-headed Gregson, who had eyes like blue diamonds and could cut you just as smooth with a look or a single word or a twist of his silent lip. Gregson who wouldn't let even a Bobby go where he wouldn't go first; who went first even when everyone knew the man at the end of the murky hallway had a bloody knife and was ready to use it again.

Gregson, who seemed to know everything.

Gregson's advice, delivered coolly, the way the newspaper-boy delivered the weather's prediction.

_If you can breathe, you're fine._

He could breathe. He was alive. But he must have gone blind, because everything was very dark. Also, he couldn't feel a thing. That was (he knew from long experience), not an encouraging event.

"_Inspector"? (Woman's voice; sounded young but calm—no, cool. Controlled)_

"_Sir? Mr. Hopkins?" (Another woman, sounded older and gruff)_

"_Hopkins, lad? Lad, can you hear me?" (Raspy man—an old one, breathing hard and should know the name to the voice, but the name wasn't there, it was gone like light and smell and nearly every sound. He could hear the voices, but precious little else over the blurring hum in his ears._

_He could; he could hear all three of them, but what was the good of it if he couldn't move enough to answer? Was he paralysed? _

_Perhaps, he considered the possibility coolly, he was insane. He'd been close to this before…and not so many years ago…_

"_Can he hear me, d'you think?"_

He remembered those words…different voice…but he remembered those words…not so long ago, when it had been the marshes, not London…and the sun had been warm and bright…not choked with smoke and fog and…and…what was that wet, sticky iron smell?

"_Can he even hear us?"_

**The Definition of Insanity, Part II**

**1913:**

Gregson didn't go far on the uglified glory of Lestrade's horse. He let the brute go to the edge of the church and pulled to a halt. The thing obeyed, and he left it reins-tied to the front-post of the small gate. It sneered at him through a patch of ghastly white on its left skull, reminding him of nothing so much as fungus glowing on a moonlit night.

Orris-root1 cluttered the entire eastern side of the withy fence. Within the fence a collection of flowers Gregson failed to recognize were blooming in celebration of June. Here the land was firm enough to support actual trees—ancient birches and a wych-elm cast shade over much of the uneven graveyard. Against a sudden glare of the emerging sun, that shade was theologically fitting.

This part of the landscape was disadvantaged for Gregson; he could see little of the solid thatched houses that made up the low-lands. It might have been a mostly deserted sea of grasses and reeds—even the carrot farms were invisible in the haze of country air and sun. The crowded tombstones within the yard made him wonder if this was what England looked like after the Plague had passed—population gone, moved to cemetery.

He sighed through his twice-broken nose, and slung one of the bags over his shoulder. He looked about but saw no presence of any other human. Waiting for Lestrade was tempting, but at the same time, Lestrade was in one of those moods that meant he wouldn't be very amusing for a while. Wondering if he should be bored already, Gregson shrugged and walked through the graves to the open gate on the other side.

He passed quite a few Hopkins forefathers-they were prosperous to go by the quality of the imported stone-a few were even made of some masterfully-worked brick, and the reasoning was explained in the short, simple BRICKMASTER cut in the centre. Gregson wasn't willing to swear what a brickmaster really was, but he was certain a great deal of pride in some brick-related skill was part of it.

Fresh earth shone in a small pool of sunlight; Gregson's heart sank at the sight. He didn't want to do it, but he stopped. Just walking without a look would have been the same as passing an acquaintance on the street without saying a friendly word.

So…he stopped. It gave him an infinite chill to look upon the smooth stone and see it was a doubler—there was plenty of room for Stanley when it was his turn to rest.

**Mrs. Olivia Baxter Hopkins**

**In His Loving Arms**

**1871-1913**

Olivia. Of all the names he had tied to the woman, he couldn't remember her ever being called that. She must not have liked it much; a lot of people hated their Christian names, but Gregson always thought it was less work to just accept it.

Baxter. That was a surname founded by a woman—a female baker. Poor Hopkins, joking weakly and miserably that Woman was his entire universe…how right he was. Gregson's chest squeezed sudden sympathy for the man. There wasn't a _thing_ wrong with him that couldn't have been cured with at least _one_ brother.

Gregson's flesh crept at the script just beneath her name.

**Tobias B. Hopkins**

**Born to be an Angel**

**1894**

He shuddered. Not superstitious, not he. Children quite often died before their parents. That didn't mean Gregson accepted it.

He set his mouth, made a face, and tugged his hat off his head and nodded to the stone. There was something very lonely about this particular monument within a crowded nest of stones…but he found himself fervently hoping Stanley's name was a long, long time in joining.

"_Gregthon."_

Gregson turned slowly. Like all men who worked for the CID, Lestrade lisped when he didn't want to be heard; the s-syllable carried. The runt was standing at the gate by the horse, holding the other bag and the tuppenny milk-can. His hat was off and his eyes were dark with distress.

"_What?"_ Gregson mouthed.

"_He'th on the other thide,"_ Lestrade picked his way forward slowly. _"Don't startle him,"_ he added as he dropped his lisp to close proximity. _"He's been in a daze for I don't know how long…but the poor minister came up behind him and Hopkins didn't know about it…"_ Lestrade mimed a wildly-swinging fist.

"_Right."_ Gregson took a deep breath. Hopkins was as likely to strike a man of God as he was likely to sprout feathers. Purple ones. _"Wait…you've been gone for hours…"_

"_He's still there."_ Lestrade cut in flatly. _"He hasn't moved, trust me."_

"_But…"_

"_He hasn't moved since the funeral_."

Gregson swallowed hard. He followed.

"_Can he even hear me?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Who put the tent up?"_

Stanley Hopkins heard the question, but didn't have to respond—it wasn't directed at him and he didn't care. Everything moved in slow motion about him. The sun was warm on his face and the air was fresh if tinged with the slow decay of too-much vegetation in too small a space…

"_I did and it isn't a tent, Euclid. A canvas lean-to is hardly a 'tent'…"_

"_Oh, shut it, you fool. Has he been sleeping or eating at all?"_

"_He eats if I make him. I can't tell if he's awake or asleep half the time."_

"_Where are his girls? His girls should be here."_

"_Hmph. "_

Gregson took one hard look at the hastily-cobbled shelter Lestrade had put together, along with a still-smouldering coals-fire, and kicked at a dry brown wattle of grass clotted up with crumbling loam. Lestrade frowned at the tiny fire, and knelt to stir the coals to a tinier flame. The single bit off a candle might produce more light—but certainly not half the amount of heat. Gregson's nose wrinkled. He never fully cared for peat-burning, but Lestrade had talked a local into selling him a few bricks for cheap. He had that knack of talking to the common workman.

Gregson tugged off his hat, risking the sun. His pale blue eyes blinked against the glare and he tried to study the slight figure perched on the edge of a scrawny little dock in what looked to be an ancient lode or canal-cut. Watery grasses were trying to march into the deeper waters, but the wrinkly flow of swifter water and the passage of sharp-tipped wooden boats made the invasion difficult. He took a step further down the slope, and a long-legged crane flew off with more panic than poise, a string of green weed trailing after its oversized clawfoot like jewelry.

Spring was longer than winter, and the sun slid away by inches. The tips of the water-plants were burnished with gold against the volcanic glow of the day upon the wrinkled water.

Behind him, Lestrade had effectively abandoned his rival and simply sat down close to Hopkins' side. The two might have been sharing the same oilcloth, for the earth was damp beneath the natural carpet of moss, but Lestrade could have been perched on the moon for all the reaction he got from Hopkins.

"_I don't know about this."_ It sounded like Gregson's voice, but Stanley knew he was still hallucinating. The _real_ Tobias Gregson would never be so lost-sounding. _"He can't come back to work! Not in the state he's in!"_

"_Just…just hold on a moment…"_

That sounded like Lestrade, which was further proof that he was out of his head. Stanley took comfort in this realisation. He was obviously too far gone to be helped. That was all right, wasn't it? Lestrade had been around a great deal since…

…since…

He wasn't certain. He frowned lightly, trying to track the end to the puzzle down, but the quarry eluded his mind…tired…he was just so tired.

"_He's fagged out. How much sleep's he seen since the funeral?"_

"_I have no idea. The priest said the whole family just up and left after the closing ceremonies and left him sitting there."_

"_Even the girls?"_ Gregson was scandalized.

"_Be charitable for his sake, Gregson! They're both mothers with young of their own, and one has a new grand-child on the way."_

"_Oh, HELLROT!"_ Birds went flying…turtles dove to the bottom and while Hopkins' heart thumped in wild shock, he heard the sound of frogs leaping for safety_. "That's their father, Lestrade! Just because you have low expectations on the rest of the human-kind including your own children—"_

"_I do NOT have low expectations on my own—"_

"_THEIR FATHER! QUIT BEING SO D-D FORGIVING TO FOOLS! THEY LEFT HIM HERE!"_

"_The youngest lost her last one, Gregson! Graveyards aren't healthy—shut it!: _Lestrade's panicked whisper (a scream from a ghost) finished it.

Silence.

The fen rang with silence.

Hopkins didn't know how long the fen held court over him—over them, but eventually there was a grunt on the opposing side, and he was sitting neatly perched between two of his elders.

Any moment now, one of them would start talking.

Or so he expected.

The moment never happened.

The day went on.

**London, 1915:**

"_Hopkins! Hopkins, man, wake up!"_

"_We don't have much time…"_

"_They're already gone, lass! Those babykillers can't turn about like a bloody horse!"_

"_That still leaves fire, or the fumes off the broken pipes! What if someone lights a match or the fire spreads this way?"_

_(Cursing) "Right, you're right…Enid…hold his head like this…yes, like that. Don't move. Just hold him still. Don't move his head. I need to see where the rest of him's hurt…"_

"_Your niece is hurt, sir."_

"_I've still got _one_ good eye left, young Miss! I'll thank you to remember that! Now put that light where people can see it! The blasted Huns won't be coming back tonight unless they're bringing their planes, and I don't hear them."_

"_I hear planes!"_

"_They're _our_ planes, you poor gel. What __**are**__ they teaching the children at the office these days?"_

Cold fingers shook as they slid over his face. Odd. Hopkins knew they were cold, but he knew he was hardly warmer. And something was hard just under his neck. He didn't like it. It felt…awkward.

"_Sir…Mr. Hopkins sir…This is Woman Police Constable Barker. I was patrolling your street when the G—when the Germans hit…there was a bombing…can you hear me? Can you hear anything?"_

**1913**

**Cambridgeshire Marshes:**

"_Can he hear me, d'you think?...Can he even hear us?"_

Gregson didn't belong to that voice. The man was larger than life; a bronze statue of strength and power and when his powers finally fell, there would be his cold-eye defiance. He wouldn't sound _worried_.

Thoughts of Gregson pulled him out of his strange stupor: a small suspicion took root in his mind that this was someone pretending to be Gregson, and Gregson wouldn't like that.

He turned his head to one side, and was distantly surprised to see Gregson was indeed sitting there on the oil-cloth.

_Now, that is a surprise,_ he mused. _I didn't think it was him at all._

If that really was Gregson—and he couldn't doubt the evidence of his senses…then he should conclude that…

He peered about, but it wasn't until he twisted nearly all the way around that he saw Lestrade behind him, kneeling before a smoking little firepit with a steaming teapot.

_Oh, my._

He really didn't know what to say. The men ignored his silence as if he were acting in a perfectly reasonable manner, and not in a mad one. Lestrade finished with the tea, and poured small wooden cups. Hopkins was relieved at the pale colour; Gregson's taste in tea was much more fierce.

"That's a surly stew of tea, Lestrade." Gregson disapproved, but made a point of showing his manners by taking the cup anyway.

"I'll be sure to tell the late Mr. Davids you think highly of his recipe." Lestrade spoke out of turn with his usual temper; he was clearly tired and ready to yap without thinking. That instantly took the fun out of teasing the man. Gregson preferred his opponents to be at their full powers—it best proved his superiority when he defeated them.

A moment later, Lestrade's words came back to his brain.

"_Davids_ taught you _how to make tea?_" He demanded.

Lestrade flushed. "Well someone had to. They never had tea on the estate when I was a boy."

Gregson was aware his teeth were getting cold. He shut his mouth. "They never had tea." He repeated.

"Too expensive."

"Well what did you drink, man?"

"Plenty of things!" The smaller man defended himself. "There was plenty of dandelion root…and the cham…and nettles…and mint…"

"You drank nettles? Suddenly everything becomes clear." Gregson realised he might have mis-calculated with that sally. Under normal circumstances, Lestrade would merely bloat up like a toad and sputter like a broken steam engine. But at this moment the exhausted man looked a little too ready to throw a pot of scalding hot tea down his collar and bury him under the nearest un-used tombstone.

"My old inspector had to teach me how to shoe my own crabshells." He said suddenly. "I didn't know the first thing about those horrid old boxes for the feet. First week on the beat and I was certain I'd be in the home for cripples." He sipped at his tea carefully. "He was astonished. Third-generation old copper, couldn't believe anyone didn't know the tricks to making those shoes wearable."

Lestrade snorted. "Those shoes never did get wearable…but they got tolerable with time."

"That they did." Gregson sipped more tea. It wasn't so bad if he kept on drinking it, he mused. "He was the whole reason why I joined up. Used to walk the beat where we lived…good, solid man, Old MacGregor."

"I joined up because of a policeman over at Plymouth," Lestrade admitted. "He didn't care who you were, treated you the same no matter what. It was the first time in my life I'd seen anyone like that. He didn't care if people respected him or not. He just gave out respect to everyone."

"That's impressive enough." Gregson noted. "He had to have been a tough one to do that among all the smugglers and church-goers."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "The people over there aren't quite that dramatic. But he was a good man."

"PC Richard Peake." Stanley drew his knees up almost to his chin, resting said chin on the rough cloth. "He was the reason why I joined up."

Lestrade and Gregson traded looks over the younger man's shoulders. They hadn't expected him to come to his senses that easily.

"He died back in '55, didn't he?" Gregson said slowly, keeping his eyes on Hopkins.

"He was _murdered_ in '55," Hopkins corrected automatically. "They used to scare us with stories about him…how he wants his killers brought to justice."

"Everyone wants justice," Lestrade commented softly. "And the dead deserve it as much as the living." He shifted his left foot restlessly; rumor had it he wore a corrective shoe for his inward twist, but it looked just like the right shoe to Hopkins' eyes.

Hopkins thought back to a hundred dares of his Constabulary days, and did a good job of not looking at the older man's ankle for clues, like a re-inforcing spat or brace.

He also did not pay attention to Gregson's hands. There were as many whispers about the big man's disability with cold as there were Lestrade's (possibly) crippled left foot. He didn't want to know. Knowing meant he might have to report it to the supervisor in the future. _He didn't want to know_. A policeman could be dismissed for stiff hands as well as a stiff ankle. He didn't want to be the doom bell.

He knew why he was letting his thoughts swirl around the real or imagined handicaps of his comrades. He felt like he was the largest handicap of all. And he did not like the sensation.

"He was just four-and-twenty when he was murdered."

Silence drifted across the three men. That was young enough to start a family of one's own…if they were wealthy enough. Most workmen were far past thirty for that event. Gregson puffed soft white clouds off his penny cigarettes. Lestrade's gloved fingers twitched over the seam of his pressed trousers; he likely wanted to smoke something too.

"I remember when he was declared dead." Gregson opted. "And thinking that there would be no findin' him in these marshes."

"Were there any suspects?" Practical Lestrade. Hopkins was certain Lestrade knew something of the case—few policemen entered history under such conditions. Besides, only two policemen had ever died in the line of duty in Cambridgeshire. Gregson knew—he had to know too. Only he never tipped his hands in the cards of life. He never revealed the weakness of knowing.

"Oh, the usual. There was always a rough gang around. But the case never gave more than the facts that he'd broken up a brawl and some of the parties were angry enough to murder him over it." Hopkins breathed out, slowly, and laced his fingers into basketwork around his shin. "He vanished in the night while on his patrol, and, well…it's obvious they put him in the fens. It's not as if you can track here." It was a glum observation. "And every year the fens rise just a little bit. Every eighteenth of August the children would petrify themselves imagining they might encounter his restless spirit in the Marsh by Wicken." A thought came to him and he snorted. "It was worse for all of us…we were related to him, if very distantly through marriage…and…well. We were so terrified of the notion, we never weighed the possibility that he might just be trying to find his way back home."

Lestrade grunted. Around the constables, an Inspector was swift and derogatory against any statement that smacked of superstition and lack of education. When they were around their own kind, the speech softened to more realistic lines. Everyone had some fears. If a man was lucky, most of his were tangible.

"I thought I was past the old ghost stories." Hopkins confessed in a low voice. "I always patted myself on the back because I didn't believe in the Black Shuck, or the ghostly monks of Spinney Abbey…everyone else had nightmares about giant black ghost-dogs with glowing eyes, or swore they thought they heard chanting monks at the old ruins…but I never did. I went out at night just to prove those things weren't there." He didn't notice how Lestrade blanched slightly at the Black Shuck, but Gregson did.

"What am I doing but going back to an old haunt." He swallowed hard, wishing his throat would hurry up and finish going numb. "You must think me daft."

"Daft? No. Perhaps a _little_ mad." Gregson puffed slightly as he settled next to the younger man. With age he had grown slightly thicker—it added to his impression of being stronger and harder.

"Have a care, Gregson." Lestrade cautioned in his low voice. "These young people today hardly know the difference."

"I'm afraid I do not." Hopkins agreed thinly. "Is one better than the other? Should I be glad to be mad and not daft?"

"Daft's just missing the brains." Gregson snorted. "Mad means they're still there, and still working, even if they aren't working the way you expect."

On the other side of Hopkins, Lestrade exhaled, loudly, through his nose. Very loudly.

"Be that as it may," he pointed out, "The mosquitoes are up. I'm going to stir up the peat and get a good smoking up. Anyone with the sense given a goose would be wise to lie down close to the ground so they don't breathe any more fumes." As he spoke he rose, cigarette clenched between his teeth, and stirred up the cherry-coloured coals angrily. Hopkins wasn't stupid, and he pressed himself on his side against the earth. Gregson swore something under his breath and tossed a heavy canvas over him.

He was asleep as soon as his body warmed beneath the canvas.

**London:**

"Be careful, sir."

Hopkins finally managed to prize his eyelids open. It was difficult. When blood dried, it was good as glue.

Through a haze of black and red, a bruise-faced WPC Barker gazed down. Her iron-neat hair was askew out of its bun. A track of blood connected her left ear to her forehead.

"How many fingers am I holding up, sir?"

Hopkins had to close one eye to focus. "Tree," he grunted.

"Very good, sir."

"Hold still, lad." Old Lions broke into view. The shock of dandelion-yellow hair was now pure dandelion thistle. A bushy white halo erupted from the told of the old man's head and he continued checking Hopkins for broken bones with hands the size of Easter hams. "Enid!" He barked over his shoulder. "How's the water, gel?"

"Almost ready, Uncle."

She sounded as calm as a picnic.

"We were bombed." Hopkins croaked.

"Oh, that we were." Lions said dryly. "I don't think there's a single window left on the whole street!"

"Much less buildings." WPC Barker muttered.

**1913:**

He opened his eyes to the dew against his lashes.

Hopkins blinked, puzzled at the cold and the weight of his eyes and realised the dew was collecting on every available bit of space on his exposed skin. Most of him was warm—Gregson's waterproof coat beneath him…Lestrade's coat wrapped above him like a carpet. Hopkins was surprised at the size of the coat but remembered Lestrade's tailor had to cut large for movement. Lestrade couldn't hold still if his life depended on it.

Hopkins lifted his head against the rising air. It smelt of salt and the fen itself. The lapwing called over the sweep of grasses. The older men were studying the play of the dying light against the marshes. When Stanley first came to the Yard, he thought of how old they were against him. Somewhere along the way, he had forgotten the differences in their ages. These were seasoned men, veterans. They didn't complain the way his generation did. They had been schooled by different masters. To complain was to admit to weakness. To fight was to say they were holding themselves back.

Gregson and Lestrade were standing before the fens, the small camp-fire burnt to low and sullen embers.

The fens sang before their heavily-cloaked figures, ringing ells of frog and bird and what knew else…the point was, the older men were standing and watching the soggy world with their lanterns and precious little judgment so much as they were watching with a silent patience upon a puzzle.

Before their feet in a thin ribbon of turf between their shadows and the squelching earth rested lanterns.

Hopkins waited in silence, afraid to breathe.

Of course.

The utterly Saxon Gregson might be allowed one thing in common with Lestrade.

Saxons were men of the ship.

Bretons were men of the sea.

They served a city governed by a river.

He'd heard of the ritual, but like rumors of Lestrade's foot and Gregson's hands, he hadn't peered too closely. It was just something those London people did when the men lost one of their own in the Thames, or one of the little Thames-streams like the Neckinger…a closing-off of matters, a final farewell to one of their own.

The toy boat floated out upon the still pool of water and bog. Hopkins could almost make out the tiny prow. A rough-carved toy, but it took years of practice and at least confidence to create such a thing. It was something an older brother did for the younger ones…or a man who grew up with a wood-worker for a father. He wondered which of them had made it.

He watched in the shadow of the graveyard while the small boat floated on a sea of ink into an even blacker ink.

A candle for the lost dead.

Lestrade was murmuring something in his sing-song accent that always made Hopkins think of the Welsh—although the man was no more Welsh than an Atlantic Cod. A moment more, and Hopkins realised Lestrade _was_ singing.

_A twelvemonth and a day being up_

_The dead began to speak_

_O who sits weeping on my grave and will not let me sleep?_

And Gregson's deep, growling bass answered Lestrade's sing-song tenor:

_Tis I, old Friend, sits on your grave_

_And will not let you sleep_

_For I crave one sight of your clay-cold face_

_And that is all I seek_

Lestrade:

_You crave the sight of my clay-cold face_

_But my face is earthly strong_

_You have the sight of my clay-cold face_

_And your time will not be long_

_Down in yonder garden, green, friend_

_Where we used to walk_

_The fairest flower e'er seen_

_Is withered to the stalk_

_The stalk is withered dry, old friend_

_So will all hearts decay_

_Then make yourself content, my friend_

_Till you are called away."_

Lestrade and Gregson sang together the rest of it, but Hopkins' weary, fuddled wits were too soaked to take it all in, even though he tried. It was too big, he knew. Too much to accept all of this. It was quite enough to understand that two men who were normally the worst of antagonists could band together and throw their hatred aside like so much foolscap and dross in emergencies…and call truce.

Sweet William's Ghost…Hopkins recognised the melody and most of the words. In the style of the unlettered they changed the music to suit themselves…to suit what fit the occasion. A classicist would be horrified. But here, with just the frogs and birds to witness…the adaptation fit.

He was willing to bet the little bark boat had more than just a candle on its rough deck. It had something of food and drink splashed upon the crude little planks…something for the dead.

They weren't just singing to the poor murdered policeman whose body rested in the bottom of the bottomless dark marsh. They were singing to him too…to one of their own who had been unable to accept the burden of grief at his wife's passing, and had to return to his original sense of loss with his home's policeman. They understood it, and shrugged at the need to explain.

He told himself that the soft glow among the reeds was the Will-o-the-Wisp, and not anything else. It just looked like it was waiting for the little boat to finish its natural drift toward it.

It did, and the boat must have run over the little pocket of flame, for the Wisp extinguished into the night.

**London:**

Police Woman Constable Barker sat back—prim and proper within the wool confines of her uniform, and her broad face was grim and bloodied as she wiped the filth of attack off her face. Arms that coolly lifted Hopkins and WPC Enid Cross? No; Woman Police Constable Cross.… out of broken rubble barely noted the effort. Behind her old Lions was settled in a makeshift padded cushion as a volunteer wrapped his concussed skull with a cool bandage.

Hopkins could see the grim blue light in the woman's eyes, and how she was holding herself together with tight control. She was keeping calm and steady even as the people about them fell apart. People were screaming; the air hung thick with the smoke of burning.

He simply reclined against the broken brick wall, taking in the information that Barker's lips was split and her left cheek a mottle of bruises. Blood flowed freely from a wound across the knuckles of her left hand. She looked exactly as if she had used her fist against someone's lesser intellect.

"They need to get to Bart's," she said sharply, referring to the nearest hospital from their street.

Too late he understood she meant him…and Lions' neice. There was something quite wrong about his mental capacity; he didn't think he would be as slow to understand in his youth. But something was strange and wrong with his head and he could not seem to make the brain between his ears work.

"You aren't going to be daft, are you?"

The question was a challenge, a leveling of barriers.

"What about you?" It was easier to deflect the question with another question.

The rock-like woman narrowed her eyes, but he sensed this was a familiar reaction from her. "I'm on duty, sir, and not as injured. Sir."

Hopkins tried to smile. It hurt too much. "Under…" He took a deep breath; something raked fire across his lungs. "…stood." He finished with a pale rasp. "You're now back on duty. As of now. They need someone formidable, Woman Police Constable…" His numb lips stumbled over the consonants, but he did rather well. "You…are…formidable."

"If you say so, sir." The rock-like woman grumbled. Beneath a very Gregson-like exterior, she seemed pleased.

"Are you certain?" Lions lifted his voice just enough to be heard.

"I'm certain. I've got my wits about me…mostly. As soon as they put me back together, I'll get to the Yard."

_The world_, Hopkins thought with a shudder. _There's nothing wrong with me. It's the world that's gone mad._

1 Iris. Iris was pronounced as "orris" in the old days, but eventually turned into a mockery of accent. Because of this caste-division, one buys "Iris" blooms at a florist, but "orris" root at the pharmacy or chemists' when they want to make home-made potpourri or perfume. The linguistically gifted argues that "orris" refers only to the root, which is the fixture in scents, and "iris" is used for the blossom.


	20. Silver Coffins

The bombs fell slowly upon the nocturnal patchwork of rooftops and chimney-pipes. Lestrade watched unbreathing as the tip of a silver bomb stroked a clay-tile roof. Fire bloomed; a thank-God-abandoned warehouse was gone. A moment later his ears rang in the compression. Crazily, he reeled for something to hold on with as the very air broke.

It all happened within the space of second. The second bomb blew. The third. The fourth, fifth and sixth burst together at the same time. Six buildings became bonfires; three were ancient relics of George III and caught like tinder. A warehouse-little more than a corn cratch-exploded. Burning wheat rained across the Thames like fireworks. The smell boiled to the old copper's nose; Lestrade staggered back, one hand hanging to the train for dear life. Fireballs boiled the wet air; orange smoke licked the underbelly of London's eternal cloud-cover. Echoes of light painted the dull outlines of the bloated up gasbags high above.

They were stupidly huge and he was sick at how far away they were from his ability to fight them.

The train shuddered under his feet, her scattering of pressures sounding in his bones. The Superintendent clutched wildly at the metal frame, gloved fingers gripping hard into the door-frame (and young people thought gloves an affectation of the old days! He'd be bleeding now without them!). Another blast rocked the rails. He felt the vibration of a terrible impact go through the metal lines, straight for the train, straight for him. Like a bolt of lightning the raw power went up, through the soles of his shoes, crawled up his bones, rattled and sounded and ricocheted and bounced off the slats of his rib-cage, striking his heart with every collision.

Lestrade gasped and clutched with his hands into the frame, unable to do more than remember to breathe between the waves of concussion as his very body felt impact after impact. About him metal sang its wounds; so much stronger than frail human bodies. He should be more afraid of its power, but it was all he could do to survive.

London was being _struck_; London was _dying_, and he could _feel_ it as though the blows were directed at him personally.

"_Hon Tad,"_ he forgot himself, and gasped his father's words instead of his mother's. _"c'hwi hag a zo en Neñv…"_

But the Father was in Heaven, and, Hallowed His Name may be, Lestrade knew somewhere in his brain that reverting to the comforts of childhood prayers wouldn't get the job done. The Triple God helped those who helped themselves. Because Lestrade was himself and not a man who held in any rubbish about predestination…he thought about what he could do.

The bombs were too close to Whitehall.

His men were there.

_His sons were there._

A final blast shivered the world to bits. Lestrade rocked with the others; he fell backwards, his head grazing metal but left him largely untouched. He sucked breath into his reluctant lungs and clenched his teeth tight, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Around him, the men, women and children of London were screaming and running and panicking. They weren't the only ones, so he couldn't fault them. If by what his ears heard was judge…the entire city was screaming.

"Oh, God."

London rippled like a sea-wave. Lestrade pitched forward on his knees against the shock. The train groaned, and slowly, slowly, pitched off the rails onto its side. The old Superintendent struck the rough ballast of the rail-rock with his face and palms, and then everything went dark.

... ... ...

"Stow it."

Nick Lestrade wasn't half Cheatham for nothing. He took after Uncle Bartram, and like Bartram, could think the swiftest when everyone else was busy with gaping and gopping. As easily as picking up a child, he lifted his older brother up and started running. His brother squawked but was otherwise too shocked to protest. Good. That made things easier.

The halls were a maze; a badly lit labyrinth where the fancy flooring wobbled and squirmed. Windows shattered, and even with one good ear, Nick could tell each window had a different musical note. His bad ear detected something more disturbing; a low vibration that began to spread throughout the building.

_"There's four of them!"_ Martin was screaming as glass showered sideways across the floors. Nick didn't know how his brother could tell from inside Whitehall that they were under attack by that many zeppelins, but he trusted Martin's bigger brain. _"They're going for the Palace!"_

"Idiots." Nick opined, short and sweet. He picked up speed and they smashed through the front door. The guards were nowhere to be seen—ah, there they were, bodily blocking a knot of hysterics from running inside. Good job. Nick swung his brother down and, not unlike his father was wont to do, threw himself into the scrimmage.

Gasping, Martin leaned on the rail to catch his breath. Sirens wailed like mechanical cats; flood-lights thrust up into the spotty clouds, illuminating flickers of the German monsters.

The Zeppelins always attacked at night, always in the dark of the moon, and always in small "squadron" groups. It was hard for them to attack with great efficiency, but a clumsy enemy can be far more damaging than a precise one. Even from the ground, Martin Lestrade could feel the wind from the Thames, shifting direction. The giants would battle the elements to and fro, and their best chance at attacking London was almost gone. Before long they would return to their hostage base in Belgium.

Zeppelins. Bloated monsters that caused more fear than actual damage…but that fear caused enough horror. One look at the panicking—and growing—mob below him in the streets was proof.

Nick snarled, displaying a fine show of teeth, lifting his large fists in the air as a whey-faced man in a checkered coat tried to strike down a Bobby to get inside the building. Martin was proud of him.

"Get back, Mr. Lestrade!" The Bobby panted. His truncheon was a black spot in his glove. Overheated in his wool uniform, the man steamed like a bake-oven, wisps of vapour curling off his neck and shoulders. "There's no reasoning with a mob, sir!"

Martin grimaced. Nick took to being called "sir" by a copper about as well as he took to being called a coward or a gimp.

**"Everyone halt!"** Martin roared, lifting his hands in the air and pretending a position of authority. In his expensive suit and mimicking his father's habit of speaking, he might be able to pull it off. **"The streets are safer! The Zeppelins are headed back to the Continent! The Zeppelins are headed back to the Continent!"** He paused for breath, because a lot of his voice's force had gone into those few words. **"Stay calm! Your families need you to be calm!"**

Englishmen might panic as fast as the next man, but they did respond well to their duties, and ignored it at their own peril of guilt. There was a pause—a brief one—in the mob, but it was enough for the police to grab the advantage. Lord Nelson would have approved. The Bobby fighting the checkered coat-man sidestepped and locked his arms with his comrades, and that quickly a living chain blocked the civilians from going in.

... ... ...

The ambulances were swift. Hopkins later learnt it was because both WPC Barker and Ms. Cross were deliberately on good terms with the rescuers of the city, and made a point of knowing where the closest relay stations rested.

Over his protests, the men saw to him first. Through a blur of stinging antiseptics and many aggravating tests with his eyes and joints and fingers (why fingers?), and questions that were to all purposes, pointless, Hopkins struggled to comply and not feel like a hapless prisoner.

Finally, they gave him a little cup of something that stung like bitter cherries and tasted like elderberries soaked in vinegar. He choked but managed to hold it down—the beefy orderly was pleased about this, as if he had passed another test by not purging.

"Ready for the next one, Anise," the orderly said over his shoulder, and Hopkins was just too tired to be surprised to learn "Anise" was a very female driver for the ambulance.

"Right, sir." Anise pulled a packet out from under her seat, and the orderly took it, going straight to Enid Cross who was being held upright by her uncle.

"Your name is Anise?" Hopkins asked stupidly.

She blinked at him. Her olive skin spoke of the Mediterranean, or possibly one of the old-fashioned Lascars off the East of London. Her accent was softened Aldgate. "No, sir." She said.

"It isn't? Why did he call you Anise?"

"Because he can't bother with Anisette."

"Long story, sir." The orderly grumped. He was bathing Miss Cross' face with the same sort of antiseptic that had made Hopkins wince. For her measure, she never flinched. Gregory's log-placid old face was hardly troubled, but he was concerned for his tiny niece. Her hair was much shorter now; Hopkins could catch the sharp, painful stench of burnt human hair, and guessed that a falling coal off the bombed roof had managed to touch at the right point where her bun tied in the back of her head. With her helmet lost in the explosion, there would have been no protection. Her hair had lost two decades' growth in an instant. Her pale cheeks smeared with ash and soot, what remained of her bright yellow hair stood almost upright in the overcharged air of London. The melted ends of that bright yellow hair curled and twisted like ruined matchsticks.

Hopkins didn't blame Gregory for his solicitousness, even though the old man was trying damned hard to hide it and even pretending he didn't care. Those two were all they had in the world. He envied him their easy closeness. His daughters had been close to him once, but they had drifted into orbits of their own making, with husbands and his grandchildren…and…their very concern for their poor alone father had created its own wall.

Although it hurt every bone, muscle and tendon in his body, he heaved himself up and stumped over to where Miss Cross was just beginning to stand. He beat Old Gregory in helping her to her feet.

"Oh, dear." Enid saw her reflection in the single scrap of window glass left intact in the building sheltering them all. She sniffed. "I suppose no one can complain that my hair's short again…this time I didn't touch it." She sniffed again.

"You look lovely," Hopkins said without thinking. His head still hurt; sometimes he saw two of Miss Cross, not one, and the comment wasn't at all professional.

"Oh." She said in a small voice.

In the horrified silence that followed Hopkins' confession, WPC Barker arched a sere eyebrow to Gregory.

Gregory arched an eyebrow back. "Young people these days," he complained under his voice. "They say what they mean, and then they think they shouldn't have said it."

"_I_ never have." WPC Barker noted.

Gregory chuckled. "Good for you. There's hope for London yet."

WPC Barker ducked her head lightly, scorning praise, but she was pleased in some strange way.

"We should get them to the hospital, perhaps?" She hinted.

Gregory huffed. "Only when we're certain the Huns have left." He grunted. "I remember how they behaved in the last war…they've broken hospitals before."

WPC Barker's lips turned into bloodless razors and she nodded.

... ... ...

"My word, _sir_!"

That panicked chain of three words was all too familiar to the Lestrades. As one, the brothers snapped their gazes forward to a small figure, smaller than even Martin, as it walked slowly from a smoky haze of fog and charred fume. It was leaning on someone else's umbrella as a walking-stick.

"I'm all right, Barlough," Superintendent Lestrade waved off the PC's worry. "I'll be all right," he amended in afterthought. Then he stopped, leaning his weight upon the umbrella. It was missing half its ribs. Martin could only stare, knowing Nick was doing the same thing. The mob had been dispersed and the real malcontents were on their way to the security of compressed-block gaol cells.

"Tad…" Martin stumbled over the shambles of the street, just barely beating Nick to embracing him first. His father was thin and frail beneath his grip; his smaller form strong but far from the strength Martin remembered in his youth.

They pulled away, and Martin saw his father's face was black blood from the lower half of his face all the way down his neck.

"Train," Tad explained hoarsely. "Tipped over. I was on the back, so I didn't get crushed…but I got a nice spill all over the ballast to show for it." He suddenly coughed, for the walk to Whitehall had been a continuous labouring through street after street of poisonous fogs. "Banged up my legs good," he added sourly. "Heard Paddington's untouched. Is there any other news?"

"We don't know, sir." Nick answered for them both. "We've been here all this time."

"You've been here for eight hours?" Their father exclaimed.

"What?" Nick stammered.

"That can't be right…" Martin's eyes were wide. "We just got out of the building and started helping with the mob…"

"And a fine job they did, sir." Barlough chipped in with a grin that made a badge of his split lip, black eye, and scored chin.

As if to mock the Younger Lestrade, the bells began to chime 4 A.M. over London.

"I suppose we couldn't hear them when we were fighting." Nick said awkwardly. "I…I thought we were just out here a bit."

Superintendent Lestrade nodded knowingly. "Your lost hours will come on you quick." He commented drily. "The PCs Cadiz and Evans didn't see you heading home on their beat, Martin, so when they saw the battlebags coming, they alerted the Home Office. Likewise for you, Nick—I've already sent word home to the ladies."

His sons nodded their relief. Now that the action was over, grey pallor crept over their faces, starting with their temples and cheeks. Suddenly exhausted, Nick sank to the bottom step of the building and leaned on his thighs.

"We'll get some tea in you, enough to get you home." Their father said softly. "Nice work, lads."

"Nice it was." Barlough sighed. "Are you _sure_ we can't let your big one join up?"

"Bad ear, and you know it, Barlough." The Superintendent's lips twitched at the other's wistful expression.

"Well what about the little one? He fought like a sack of cats. Is there anything wrong with his ear?"

"No, but the Home Office wanted him. Are you going to tell the Home Office they can't have what they want?"

"What if we as't them polite-like?"

The Lestrade brothers snorted through their considerably-sized noses. They'd heard all this before, and for years. The ridiculousness of it all made them feel better.

Then as Martin watched, Nick's eyes grew large, and then shrank. His large fists tightened on his knees and he looked back at his older brother with deep apprehension.

It took Martin's tired mind a moment, but he caught up.

The Johns brothers. They were still quite dead, and still in Martin's office.

"_Fingerprints?"_ Nick mouthed as the chatter continued. Someone was trying to hail a tea-can from someone.

"_I was pulling my gloves on when they came in."_ Martin mouthed back.

"_And I already had mine on."_ Nick glanced down at his leather-clad hands. He wasn't sure he could take them off now; the swelling was getting worse. All his collected aches and pains were coming to him—a whisper of deep agonies to come.

"Here you go, lads."

They plastered proper expressions on their faces, and dutifully took the offers of hot black tea. They drank thirstily, and soon were able to rise to their feet. Their father looked almost as tired, but they knew better than to ask him if he would join them home.

"Got word from your Missus, Martin. She's fine with the childer, they're heading off to the grandparents." The Superintendent squared his hard shoulders beneath his battered coat. "Might not come back until the conflict's finished."

"There aren't a lot of reasons to attack Neston." Martin sighed. "At least not since the Dee was filled up with silt. Well…there's Wirral," he added, thinking of the colliery the government had taken for the duration of the conflict with Germany. One colliery did not an especial target make; and his wife's people were farmers from the outerlying areas. They would be under very low risk.

Lestrade watched his sons go, half-crippled from a weariness he could feel in his own bones.

"A few of the wireless stations are down, but we're finding the ones what do work." The Bobby—Barlough—broke in urgently. "NSY is still in good shape, and they're sweeping up the looters and instigators on our side of the Thames. Water-police beat us to the other sides…some troubles with the docks. Some people got it in their heads the water would be safer."

"Not sure about that…" Lestrade rubbed at the back of his neck. For eight hours he had fought his own battle with London; fighting through knots of people in one turn, then helping another crowd just a few streets later. Through it all he had hopped froglike from wire office to wire office, letting the Yard know of his whereabouts and what he was doing. Because of the blackout conditions and the dark of the moon it had taken nearly four hours for a team of Bobbys to even _find_ him. Once found, it was much easier to give orders for action.

"Will you be headed back to the Yard, sir?" Barlough asked softly.

"Yes…soon." Lestrade took a deep breath and held it. "Check with Wicks; someone needs to see if the pumps have seen any damage from the bombs. Even one ruined well is enough to cripple a portion of London! And…tell Ross to see about the missions on his beat. They'd be closer to the bombs than anyone else."

"Sir, we need to get back to the Yard." So spoke a greatly daring young PC who had stuck to Lestrade like a cocklebur since their meet-up in High Street.

"And the Yard is where we're going." Lestrade cleared his throat, coughed twice, and finally took a deep breath. His dark eyes were pools of misery from beneath his bowler's brim. "Meet you at the corner, Bascombe."

"Yes, sir."

He hobbled away with another two of the PCs. Bascombe watched him go, his red-rimmed eyes sore with soot and ash. The smoke of burning buildings added to the struggling grey of dawn.

"What happened?" Barlough asked quietly.

Bascombe gritted his teeth. "We had to get through _the Square_ to get here," he muttered through the side of his mouth. This was meant for Barlough's ears and no one else's. "That young lady his youngest son was engaged to…there's precious little left of the building. Just black sticks and broken brick. We looked and we looked, but what there was of the dead…there wasn't much to identify. Looks like at least twenty people are dead…and the ones that aren't…they're homeless."

Barlough took a deep breath. "No wonder he wasn't lookin' at Nicholas. Don't think I didn't notice."

"Thank God Whitehall missed the bombs. They would have been killed too."

"True that. Can you imagine the trouble? So much as a dead _mouse_, and the Home Office throws a fit. We can do without dead people in there."

"Poor fellow." His friend whispered.

Barlough agreed. He nodded, and Bascombe hurried to catch up to their superior. Neither man envied Lestrade his burden of responsibility.

... ... ...

Lestrade wouldn't have cared had he known. It wasn't in him to expect someone else to _feel_ for his problems. But he moved as fast as he could through a fatigue as deep as Shakespeare's well, and he reminded himself that it was foolishness to tell Nick his fiance and her family were positively dead. Fragments of human remains did not a _person_ make. They needed proof first.

He'd waded up to his waist in corpses in his career. He'd struggled through fields of the dead and witnessed a defiled cavern that would have sent most soldiers screaming. He'd crawled in sewers to find the dead-frozen crawlers of London's poorest. He'd found them...and he'd identified them down to the smallest murdered infant eaten by rats.

But he couldn't for the life of him recognise enough of any of the remains in that building that he could just tell Nick his future wife was dead. Nor could he tell him anything about her parents.

Proof first; news second.

But this was war, and he'd worked with enough veterans, heard enough stories of his surviving kin...and he'd served East of Aldgate.

Proof might never come. In that case, Nick would be forced into a game of waiting.

He might have to wait until hope was gone, then bury Ivy by default.

"This world has gone mad," he whispered, and he didn't care if the PCs behind him could hear. It was the truth.


	21. He's a Holmes!

DAYS OF OUR YEARS

* * *

The back door to the Colchester Building was stuck again.

Toby Irish scowled with all six-foot-three of himself, and tried a third time. Now the door cowed to the violence of his six-foot-four form and opened without a squeak. The tricks of entry were as true now as it was when he was a dirty street urchin, living off scraps and kindness. And yet the man froze before stepping inside. His flesh had been prickling all day; nerves sang beneath his skin like piano wires trained to screaming point.

If he had still been a starveling off the slums, he would have vowed someone was following his steps.

But who would follow Toby? He was perfectly ordinary—a slatecutter lucky enough to have good business shaping slates for teachers and schoolchildren. His wife worked as a toymaker; their children attracted no attention to the world.

That left only one possibility.

The Street Arab had grown large and healthy despite all obstacles to his upbringing. He was a fair-haired Milesian with the wide-spaced light blue eyes of a Danan's Irish and with age his hair had yellowed. He looked more like his adopted father than he did the real father he dimly remembered. This did not bother him in the slightest. He vaguely loved the man who had given him life, but that man was long since dust. What was important was the here and now, and that was the father who looked out for him when he was a louse-flustered child in the gutter.

Toby held his breath as the zeppelin's shadow darkened London across his shoulders. Without street-lamp or candle, the earth-born clouds of soot swallowed the streets. The taste of iron stung in his throat. Far away—but too close—he could still catch a bit of shouting or some other clue that the zeppelins had struck damage. This part of London was always congested; the stacks caught the rival air flows between the rivers and made it all hover a dank glower. He knew he was smaller than their ire—a dust mote to be stamped underneath—but he still held quiet and static until the long minutes bled out and the inky shadow crawled silently down the streets, heading south. The man shuddered without a sound; the shadow had been clammy and palpable with its horribly unliving threat. London kept herself as silent as possible on the bombing nights, and yet somehow the city grew more silent when the things attacked.

Shadows were soundless. Dumb since birth, Toby always fretted at how 'soundlessness' meant 'lack of threat' to the other folk. The zeppelins were the crest of terror and London was only just learning this lesson.

Shaking inside his battered work-slops, Toby stepped hastily inside, shutting the door as quietly as he could. The latch snapped shut loud as a bullet and he flinched. On the other side the slinking horror bled over the streets.

The big man stood in a bath of his own sweat for many breaths, trying to take it all in. He finally reassured himself of the lock's safety and crept up the stairs to the small flat of rooms he shared with his parents until his marriage. He came in by the back door; they'd leave by the front. No sense being predictable.

It was Della who had verbalised the niggling fear in the back of his mind for the past week; Della who finally leveled the tea-server upon their tiny table and fixed him with a deadly-minded brown eye and told him to go; it was time he got his parents out of the Colchester Building and over here where it was safer. If the Germans bombed the agricultural outskirts of London, it was because the gunners were too drunk to know East from West. Toby had been glad to obey because it meant he was doing something over the chill that had settled across his city like winding-sheets.

Two tiny gaslights glowed on opposite sides of the wall; the main illumination. A lot of stone had gone into the bones of the building, and the residents were hoping it would shelter them from unlucky bombs. Toby had seen eight-foot holes blasted through centuries of packed cobblestone and earth in the streets and was not hopeful. He slipped quietly up the stairs and down the familiar carpets to his old rooms. People murmured on the other side of their own doors, hushed over suppers and newspapers. He knew everyone on every floor.

He stopped at the last door, the only one that overlooked the corner street, and knocked three times. He waited, and knocked again. His parents knew that pattern—they had taught it to him the first night he had come to live with them.

He waited too long before he was finally rewarded with a shuffling step he knew as his mother's and fingers fumbled at the safety-latch on the the other side. The door strained inward and he looked upon her taut, frightened face.

Lousie Gregson had always been beautiful in a rare way most humans were never blessed to see. Her hair was red and despite all folklore greyed _very_ late in life. Her shell-tinted eyes were as lustrous as they had been the first day Toby had met her, and her face was still moderately smooth of wrinkles and worry. But she was now ghostly from fear and her fine crafter's hands shook about the deadly-looking knitting needles she clutched in her left hand.

Toby stepped inside cautiously. He was one of the few people who knew the formidable Mrs. Gregson could use her left as easily as the right. She was holding her needles like ready weapons for the enemy's breast.

"_Here."_ She mouthed and jerked her head to the side, where their tiny bedroom rested.

Toby locked the door after him, and followed his mother.

His father was lying fully dressed beneath a heavy coverlet, face as pale as hers, only illness was his cause, not fear. He was shaking from the weight of it.

"Where's the family?" His father asked hoarsely.

Toby smiled at him, thinking _safe_ with all his heart. He knew his father could 'hear' his thought. He was always better at picking up the unseen.

"Good." His father chattered.

Toby Irish nodded, and looked to the corner where his mother had packed bags on standby. He traded a single look with her, and bent over the bed. His father was still a big man, large and strong—this illness was temporary (Toby hoped with all his heart). With any luck he would be able to shake it off in a few days' worth of rest and quiet away from the Babykillers floating over the city.

Toby lifted Gregson's heavy body up with a single grunt, and began picking his way down the narrow flight of stairs to the streets below. The sooner he got them out of here...

It crossed his mind that if anything happened to his father, the Commissioner would be more than angry. Henry was in chronic pain now from that assassination attempt, and rumour had it he was known to use fluent Urdu on people who displeased him. Toby hoped that was all it was—a rumour. His father wasn't supposed to leave his rooms without letting the Commissioner know first...

...But his father had seen ahead to a troubling future in his work and had sat wife and son down first before launching his latest case under the Home Office. He had listed possible conflicts; possible outcomes. Thank God he had because they knew what to do now that things had gone wrong for him.

Louise keyed the door open from the inside and the three stepped into the night.

* * *

The Colchester was unique in that it had a roofed front porch of stone—normally that was a disaster waiting to happen, for London's eternal army of homeless sought this rare shelter. But Gregson's presence and his willingness to arrest someone for loitering meant they were alone.

The family paused, breathing slowly. The fog bloomed about their feet, clammy and black and yellow. Its slimy breath crept against Toby's neck and he shuddered. Gregson's breathing was the more laboured for being in this muck, but he was trying to keep it quiet for their sakes. Toby looked this way and that, senses straining.

Tick.

?

Tick-**tick**-tick.

?

Toby's flesh crawled at hearing his own signal coming back at him.

Tick-**tick**-**tick**.

Louise was straightening her perfectly straight spine and peering about with a dawning glare of suspicion on her shadowed face. Toby caught that his mother could hear the light signal as well...and somehow knew the owner.

**Tick**-tick-tick.

Gregson lifted his head up from where it was resting on Toby's shoulder. "It's all right," he whispered. "Answer back."

Toby obeyed, clicking four times by pressing the back of his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

A shadow detached itself from across the street, but only just. It was a little man, and his coat hung slightly large on his small frame. Toby would know the outline of that hard-crowned bowler anywhere.

With a speed that had a much to do with the urgency of the situation, Lestrade dashed across the empty street. It was unlikely anyone could see him in the fog anyway, but he wasn't taking chances. He was panting out of breath when he made it underneath the roof.

"_Good Christ!"_ Gregson whispered in horror. _"What happened to you?"_

Normally fastidious, the old copper was a mess of dirty, scraped-up clothing and his face had been hastily washed free of blood more than once—Tony recognised the art of public pump cleaning. An eye was swollen almost half-shut and some terrific force had dented his bowler. Lestrade had crushed it back, but Toby wondered why he even bothered. And he wasn't in uniform? Why?

"Later," Lestrade breathed. "I was going to ask if you can travel...but never mind." He gulped for breath with a wintry smile. "Begging your pardon, Mrs. Gregson," he touched his hatbrim formally, "But would you have any objection to my escorting the three of you out of here?"

Lousie smiled and lowered her needles.

Toby didn't know the driver of the unmarked cab that pulled up—but Gregson gaped, stunned at the white-haired old gentleman and was almost overcome.

"I haven't been retired _that_ long, you old gorilla!" Gregory hissed around a dead cigar.

"Right." Gregson wheezed as they took off. "I take it Henry sent you?"

"I don't know who sent me, honestly." Lestrade shot back. "I'm not even supposed to be on duty!"

"Bloody hell. Give up. What is happening?" Gregson coughed into his sleeve and sniffed loudly. "I was under orders to get out of London if I didn't specifically hear from the Office once a day. The day passed eight hours ago. So here we are running out of here like bloody rats, and here you are, helping me run? I'm not sure I follow all of this."

"I don't know all the details either." Lestrade shot back, harried. "All I know is, I'm almost to my bed after a night of crowd-control through half of London when Einarsson runs up with a message from Home."1 He was utterly exhausted; his eyes bloodshot and grimy from soot. "The streets from here to the Bridge are clotted up with silly asses wandering around looking for something to do! The fire-fighters have put out all the fires and now the hospitals are dealing with the wounded and the dead and now every available man is back in uniform to keep the looters from helping themselves to everything in the Wheelock Hotel—it took a glancing hit off the north-facing chimneys—All I know is, I'm _told_ that Henry's wanting you out of the Colchester and out of London and he sent a message to you hours ago but the messenger never came back—"

Lestrade stopped and gasped for breath before his shocked audience. Gregson was the only other speaking man in the cab, and he was just as dumbstruck as his wife and son.

"-and they can't find him. I think it's passing queer that they can't even tell me _who_ your messenger was, but I'm not the one in charge!" Lestrade stopped for breath again. Toby pulled out his hip-flask and the little man drank it without pausing to taste. "Gregson, your turn?" His dark eyes fixed almost frantically in the gloom as Gregory snapped the whip on the cab.

Gregson was able to keep his mind on the subject—if with difficulty. "Slow down, Ratty." He rumbled in for what was him a soothing manner. "I take it the roads are why we're in a hayburner right now?"

"They wanted to send an armoured Rolls," Lestrade snorted at the silliness of the notion. "Henry's losing his touch with his men, Gregson. There are three smoking-great pits in the ground where the High Street Junction sits—that last gasbag that touched us knocked the street by the _Bronze Farthing_ all the way down to the original Roman Road! But there's a Model T waiting for you once we get outside the centre of the city proper. From there I'm to see that you're bundled up and taken to whereverthedevil Henry wants you to go." Lestrade slumped back in his narrow spot next to Toby, his eyes drifting shut from exhaustion.

"I thought that Quaker2 wasn't letting us use his cars for anything but ambulances." Gregson protested.

Lestrade's eyes snapped open again. "It _is_ an ambulance." He retorted.

"Silly me." Gregson grumbled.

"It's _got_ to be a Model T. Train's suspended; I don't trust the canals on this side...A Rolls, nicely armoured as I'm sure they are, would just get stuck in our new potholes—Donkeys and mules were conscripted into clearing details all the way from here to the North Sea tideflats. Nothing else is light enough or strong enough to get us out of here. I was lucky Gregory knew some strings over at Johnson's Mews. He found the only cab small enough to get through the traffic at the Toll-Bridge. Everyone else is using those BSA Triumphs."

Gregson shivered at the thought of blaring motorcycles gadding about his precious London like so many mad metal bees. "How'd you run into Gregory? Isn't he supposed to be retired?"

"Tell him that." Lestrade gulped another bit of watered brandy down. The colour was slowly leaking back into his cheeks. "Tripledie, it's a long story...he was there when I was watching Hopkins get carted off in a stretcher—oh, don't panic! Your precious, precocious protege is just fine—I would have told you that first thing if he wasn't! Just-Gregson! I know _what_ I'm doing, but not _why_!" He stabbed the air between them with his forefinger—Toby remembered the PCs calling it "Lestrade's Doom Finger" and appreciated its weight. Few people could stand up to his father, but _Lestrade was the only one who never stopped_. "Last I'd heard about you, you'd gotten into the wrong side of a dirty knife on a Dockside Raid." His glower could have lit the cab up from the inside. "Are you going to tell me that you still go on raids now that you've been promoted?"

Gregson shook his head with a wry smile. He was weak as a kitten but the whole mess had put much-needed colour in his cheeks. The Old Guard always did better under a need. "I do when we're on a case with German spies."

"Oh, bl-" Lestrade stopped himself, glancing at Louise for apology. What he got was a knowing nod that said she knew everything. "You told them everything? Blooming." He rubbed at his sore face. "Right. Forget I asked anything."

"Too late," Gregson gibed back, but without heat. The cab had slowed, and they rattled back and forth. Toby kept peeking out the windows for clues but saw nothing that would be useful. German spies in London—his father was absolutely being followed and no doubt they were following Toby as well.

Lestrade wrestled with his conscience for three seconds. "If you're on a case about spies, why aren't you in a guarded hospital?"

"Where do you think I picked up this infection?" Gregson tapped his shoulder. Bandages rustled under his jacket. "I was safer recuperating at home—at least till now." He shook his head warningly. "You're really better off not knowing."

"I'll take your word for it." Lestrade was pale under his own wounds; Toby cringed beneath his hat. He'd never seen the little man afraid for his own life, but this wasn't his own life; he had responsibilities and he was too old to go out and meet the foe as he had in his youth.

"Come to think of it," Gregson mused, "You're out of uniform."

Lestrade gave him a poisonous look and started fidgeting with his watch.

Louise put her elbow into her husband's ribs. It was hard to say who was the more shocked. The Formidable Mrs. Gregson preferred to be invisible and many a time she took being acknowledged as an insult. She rarely volunteered to be noticed.

The woman glared at her loving husband and the other men were glad they were subjected to none of it.

Gregson cleared his throat.

Lestrade passed over the half-empty flask to his old rival. "I was visiting Sherlock Holmes yesterday...cut it short. I was on the train back when the zeppelins hit. Train wrecked." He rubbed at his forehead and they sensed his frown in the darkness. "Found Nick and Martin at the Home Office...they'd joined ranks and was helping our lads beat down a foaming mob of panic. But it was eight hours of fumbling about from the train to Home. I passed by the Gownley Houses. There's...there's nothing left but ash and rubble, Gregson."

"Nothing?" Gregson was hushed. The pall that followed was sad and pained. "Special Constable Downley's parents lived there."

"I've...met the man." Lestrade's eyes glimmered in the spotty light with too much moisture. "He's...he was...a kinsman of Nick's fiancee. I... I don't know if he survived. Those Gownley Houses went up like so much matchwood. You wouldn't believe it. A four-storey building gone like a shock of dry straw!"

"And Nick's fiancee?" Gregson prodded mercilessly.

"I think she's gone. I think they're all gone."

Gregson didn't know what to say. Toby was glad he couldn't say anything. He peered over her father's bowed head to his mother. Her shell-tinted eyes glowed in the small bits of precious light that slipped in and out of their passing cab's windows.

"And that's not all."

The Gregsons snapped their gaze back to the non-Gregson of the group. Lestrade had become frozen, his torn and bloody gloves clutching at his beaten hat in his lap. Above their heads Gregory was urging the horses on, though one was barely out of its coltish years and would have panicked in its harness were it not paired with a cynical old nag.

"Sgt. Morris...your sergeant?"

"Eh? Yes, he's my assistant." Gregson frowned. "He knows about the spy-case. I trust him."

"Well, he came up to me...he told me to take this and hold on to it no matter what."

Slowly, moving with the weight beyond his decades, Lestrade pulled a tiny candle-lamp out of his coat. It was just large enough to be serviceable for a quarter-hour of burning. He lit it with hands that shook with nerves and fatigue, and Toby quietly held it for him as he reached again inside his coat and pulled out a rectangle of pale blue paper.

"You've trusted me this far." Lestrade was speaking as though it was his own eulogy. "You may as well see this."

Toby squinted, as did Louise, at the paper as it transferred to Gregson's hand. The wording was in English, thankfully, but dry and pointed and very, very brief. It was a missive that granted Lestrade temporary powers (until rescinded) to perform the actions he felt were necessary for the safety of the people under British Law.

"What," Gregson asked as calmly as he knew how, "are you of all people doing with authourisation from the Foreign Office?"

"You think that's the problem?" Lestrade demanded. He was shivering and Toby Irish thought to himself that he wasn't ready to see the men of his childhood look so old, or so frightened. "You were supposed to get one of these. The missing messenger had it in his parcels when he left Whitehall twelve hours ago."

"I...no." Stricken, Gregson looked from his wife to his son back to his wife again; they were both shaking their heads in the no, with eyes as shocked as himself. "No, Lestrade." He whispered. "I never...I never even expected or suspicioned anything like this." He straightened inside his warm blanket, and handed the paper back before it burnt his fingers. "Is that why they hunted you out? Because you had one too?"

"Either that, or they're thinking ahead to your assassination." Lestrade was too far gone in nerves and fatigue to hold back his tongue. "And they need someone else to take your place. They'd pulled these tricks before, but I'd rather find your messenger and find your papers of authourisation!"

"They're closer than I thought." Gregson murmured under his chin. Hard blue eyes sparked like agatized flint against iron as his brain slowly pulled bits and pieces together to make a fitting puzzle. Lestrade had seen this look before (usually on Holmes), and never ceased to marvel seeing it in one of the Yard.

"Did Morris say where he got this?"

"Of course not."

"You wouldn't happen to know if it was Mycroft Holmes, would you?"

Lestrade only shook his head, no. "There was no identity behind the letter, just the signature." He flipped the expensive paper open and pointed to a tangled skein of ink at the bottom. "Lord Albion."

"I was afraid of that." Gregson closed his eyes for a moment, tired at life but not afraid. No one had ever seen the man afraid. Lestrade believed it was impossible.

"What is it?" Lestrade leaned forward, tired as he was, and touched Gregson's knee beneath the thick coverlet.

"Lord Albion. It's a name that doesn't exist. It's a name they use when they can't let a paper trace back to a living official. Albion. Old name for Britain under Roman Rule. I wonder if Mycroft Holmes thought this up." Gregson explained heavily. "He's a voice at Home, sure...and he's a powerful voice in the Foreign Office...but he isn't the only voice in either one. So it might be in our best interests to find out...who exactly is giving us license to break our laws of office and perform as if we were military spies?"

Lestrade rubbed an ache at his neck. "Mycroft Holmes used the Yard for more than one international incident." He offered. "I'd say he did it."

"And if this isn't his work?" Gregson's voice cracked. "To whom would the axe fall?"

"His brother said more than once that Mycroft Holmes is the British Government on occasion." Lestrade protested.

"Which was years ago. _He retired."_

Lestrade went white to his greying side-burns. "So did they pull him back out of retirement? Or was the retirement a work of fiction from the very beginning?"

"He's a Holmes." Gregson could have wept from the frustration that wanted him to laugh or roar. "How much of his life is a work of fiction?"

* * *

In France, the sun was rising.

John Watson noted its arrival with his dented watch, but he took no joy from his simple ritual. Sleep had simply refused him, and though he was conditioned to work days without it, he worried that his duties would suffer.

The wintered lion walked slowly out of the trench and into the back of the slopes (far away, one hoped, from German snipers). He walked out of the pits of death and into the emerging day, aware that the air was wrapped in fresh dew and white mist—mist so clean and thick one might wash in it. The world rarely smelled as sweet as it was now, speaking of fresh upturned clay and stock-cropped grass. The wind was blowing to the trenches.

Before him stretched thin a spidery little earth road that connected the trenches to the distant hospital and from there to the first of a chain of cities that stretched from the mountains all the way to the sea.

Yellow dust was curling a thirty-foot plume into the air, and soon he would be able to hear the generators of that dust cloud. He wondered how many ambulance trucks would be here today. And how long.

The sun glowed, melting the curling white mist before his eyes. Watson took a deep breath, once, and held it in until the ground swam.

Someone fired a rifle. The morning had officially begun.

"Watson!"

Watson snapped to the sound. One of the surgeons—Thorley?-was staggering down from the lookout-post, the left of his face red from a scrape against the low wooden roof. "Get back in the trench! Get back in the trench! Now!"

One didn't argue with that. Watson flew. Each second of his life compounded the warning throb that hammered the blood in his ears, clogging his ability to hear anything but something was coming up behind him, something with the dull roar of the ocean.

The opening of the trench was low; Watson flew in it, managing to land with his boots and not his hands and knees. The strained boards creaked and threatened to crack beneath his weight but the drying mud held solid on the other side.

"They're coming back! Sir!" Thorley's lookout was still at his post, ignoring the calls for his retreat. The man could barely wrench his eyes from the death-grip upon his glasses, but he looked away long enough to scream over his shoulder. "Warn Consett! They're coming back!"

Watson was already running when the trench-floor fluttered beneath his soles. First up—then down—the boards rippled in a way they shouldn't—as the men scuttled like ants to the tightest shelters in the dwindling shade of the earthen walls. Then the planks straightened smooth and solid for a precious heartbeat-

And then the sound of the explosions.

The first had been too far away to cause much damage; the second, third, and fourth lifted the old soldier into the air as clean as a soap-bubble. He landed with his stronger leg first and clutched at a wall-support as the trench quivered and shivered. Earth rattled and rained over their helmets, rang against the metal. Watson paused to breathe in and choked; the blasts had opened past atrocities. The rank of corpses drifted with the smoke.

Watson did not want their trench to be their grave. He kept running, as his men fell into tight-jawed positions and peered for the hated sight of the German gasbags.

"-attacking in broad daylight-"

"-Gone mad Huns-"

"Bloody-"

"They've lost their sodding minds!"

_Not mad,_ Watson thought. _Desperate. The wind that changed over the field must have pushed them back to the Channel. If they don't correct their course now they'll be vulnerable to-_

The bomb dropped.

The fuse must have delayed; it struck the earth without exploding. The impact sent Watson flying airbourne, over the top of the trench. A crazed second gave him a panoramic view of the exposed battlefield, and staring-white German faces. _God, they're young,_ the doctor thought ridiculously. _I was older than that when I first joined..._

Then he came down with gravity, and struck something with his body.

And the bomb woke up.

* * *

1The Home Office

2Henry Ford was far from a Quaker, but he had strong opinions about how his cars would be used in WWI.


End file.
